But suddenly he sat bolt upright.
"It's idiotic, my boy," he announced quietly to Fauchery.
"What d'you mean, idiotic ?" cried the author, growing very pale.

"It's you that are the idiot, my dear boy!" Bordenave began to get angry at once.

He repeated the word "idiotic" and, seeking a more forcible expression, hit upon "imbecile" and "damned foolish." The public would hiss, and the act would never be finished! And when Fauchery, without, indeed, being very deeply wounded by these big phrases, which always recurred when a new piece was being put on, grew savage and called the other a brute, Bordenave went beyond all bounds, brandished his cane in the air, snorted like a bull and shouted: "Good God! Why the hell can't you shut up?
We've lost a quarter of an hour over this folly.

Yes, folly! There's no sense in it.

And it's so simple, after all's said and done! You, Fontan, mustn't move.