times right off. There is only Saint-Potin who can beat me
at it among those here. Have you seen the governor? There is nothing
funnier than to see that old tubby Norbert playing at cup and ball. He
opens his mouth as if he was going to swallow the ball every time."

One of the others turned round towards him, saying: "I say, Forestier, I
know of one for sale, a beauty in West Indian wood; it is said to have
belonged to the Queen of Spain. They want sixty francs for it. Not
dear."

Forestier asked: "Where does it hang out?"

And as he had missed his thirty-seventh shot, he opened a cupboard in
which Duroy saw a score of magnificent cups and balls, arranged and
numbered like a collection of art objects. Then having put back the one
he had been using in its usual place, he repeated: "Where does this gem
hang out?"

The journalist replied: "At a box-office keeper's of the Vaudeville. I
will bring it you to-morrow, if you like."

"All right. If it is really a good one I will take it; one can never
have too many." Then turning to Duroy he added: "Come with me. I will
take you in to see the governor; otherwise you might be getting mouldy
here till seven in the evening."

They re-crossed the waiting-room, in which the same people were waiting
in the same order. As soon as Forestier appeared the young woman and the
old actress, rising quickly, came up to him. He took them aside one
after the other into the bay of the window, and although they took care
to talk in low tones, Duroy noticed that they were on familiar terms.

Then, having passed through two padded doors, they entered the manager's
room. The conference which had been going on for an hour or so was
nothing more than a game at ecarte with some of the gentlemen with the
flat brimmed hats whom Duroy had noticed the night before.

Monsieur Walter dealt and played with concentrated attention and crafty
movements, while his adversary threw down, picked up, and handled the
light bits of colored pasteboard with the swiftness, skill, and grace of
a practiced player. Norbert de Varenne, seated in the managerial
armchair, was writing an article. Jacques Rival, stretched at full
length on a couch, was smoking a cigar with his eyes closed.

The room smelled close, with that blended odor of leather-covered
furniture, stale tobacco, and printing-ink peculiar to editors' rooms
and familiar to all journalists. Upon the black wood table, inlaid with
brass, lay an incredible