At nine o'clock
           in the evening the body
               of the house
        at the Theatres
           des Varietes was
         still all but empty.

    A few individuals,
           it is true,
         were sitting quietly
              waiting in the balcony
                   and stalls,
           but these were lost,
         as it were,
           among the ranges of seats
             whose coverings of cardinal velvet
                loomed in the subdued
                       light of the dimly
                          burning luster.

    A shadow
          enveloped the great red splash
               of the curtain,
           and not a sound
            came from the stage,
         the unlit footlights,
           the scattered desks
               of the orchestra.

    It was
          only high overhead
               in the third gallery,
           round the domed ceiling
             where nude females and children
                flew in heavens
                  which had turned
                       green in the gaslight,
         that calls and laughter
            were audible
                   above a continuous hubbub
                       of voices,
           and heads
               in women's and workmen's caps
            were ranged,
         row above row,
           under the wide-vaulted bays
               with their gilt-surrounding adornments.

    Every few seconds an attendant
        would make her appearance,
           bustling along
               with tickets
             in her hand and
              piloting in front
                   of her a gentleman
                 and a lady,
         who took their seats,
           he in his evening dress,
         she sitting slim and undulant
               beside him
             while her eyes
                   wandered slowly round the house.

    Two young men
        appeared in the stalls;
           they kept
              standing and looked about them.

    "Didn't I say so,
           Hector?"

    cried the elder
           of the two,
         a tall fellow
               with little black mustaches.

    "We're too early!

    You might quite well
          have allowed me
              to finish my cigar."

    An attendant was passing.

    "Oh,
           Monsieur Fauchery,"
          she said familiarly,
               "it won't begin
                   for half an hour yet!"

    "Then why do
         they advertise for nine o'clock?"

    muttered Hector,
            whose long thin face
               assumed an expression of vexation.

    "Only this morning Clarisse,
           who's in the piece,
         swore that
            they'd begin
                   at nine o'clock punctually."

    For a moment
         they remained silent and,
           looking upward,
         scanned the shadowy boxes.

    But the green paper
         with which these were hung
             rendered them more shadowy still.

    Down below,
           under the dress circle,
         the lower boxes
            were buried in utter night.

    In those
           on the second tier
        there was
              only one stout lady,
           who was stranded,
         as it were,
           on the velvet-covered balustrade
               in front of her.

    On the right hand and
           on the left,
         between lofty pilasters,
         the stage boxes,
        bedraped with long-fringed
              scalloped hangings,
         remained untenanted.

    The house
           with its white and gold,
         relieved by soft green tones,
         lay only half
              disclosed to view,
           as though full
               of a fine
             dust shed
                   from the little jets
                       of flame
                   in the great glass luster.

    "Did you
          get your stage
               box for Lucy?"

    asked Hector.

    "Yes,"
          replied his companion,
               "but I
                had some trouble
                      to get it.

    Oh,
           there's no danger of Lucy
              coming too early!"

    He stifled a slight yawn;
        then after a pause:

    "You're in luck's way,
           you are,
         since you
            haven't been
                   at a first night before.

    The Blonde Venus
        will be the event
               of the year.

    People have been talking
           about it for six months.

    Oh,
           such music,
          my dear boy!

    Such a sly dog,
           Bordenave!

    He knows his business
        and has
              kept this
                   for the exhibition season."

    Hector was religiously attentive.

    He asked a question.