Good heavens, what an unpleasant smell there was in that slut Mathilde's dressing room! It was warm, if you will, with the tranquil warmth peculiar to rooms in the south when the winter sun shines into them, but really, it smelled far too strong of stale lavender water, not to mention other less cleanly things! She opened the window and, again leaning on the window sill, began watching the glass roof of the passage below in order to kill time.
Muffat went staggering downstairs.

His head was swimming.

What should he say?
How should he broach the matter which, moreover, did not concern him?
He heard sounds of quarreling as he reached the stage.

The second act was being finished, and Prulliere was beside himself with wrath, owing to an attempt on Fauchery's part to cut short one of his speeches.
"Cut it all out then," he was shouting.

"I should prefer that! Just fancy, I haven't two hundred lines, and they're still cutting me down.
No, by Jove, I've had enough of it; I give the part up." He took a little crumpled manuscript book out of his pocket and fingered its leaves feverishly, as though he were just about to throw it on Cossard's lap.