Giry, my box-keeper, whom you will reinstate in her functions forthwith.

4. Let me know by a letter handed to Mme. Giry, who will see that it reaches me, that you accept, as your predecessors did, the conditions in my memorandum-book relating to my monthly allowance. I will inform you later how you are to pay it to me.

If you refuse, you will give Faust tonight in a house with a curse upon it.

Take my advice and be warned in time.

O.G.

 

“Look here, I’m getting sick of him, sick of him!” shouted Richard, bringing his fists down on his office table.

Just then, Mercier, the acting-manager, entered.

“Lachenel would like to see one of you gentlemen,” he said. “He says that his business is urgent and he seems quite upset.”

“Who’s Lachenel?” asked Richard. “He’s your stud groom.”

“What do you mean? My stud-groom?”

“Yes, sir,” explained Mercier, “there are several grooms at the Opera and M. Lachenel is at the head of them.”

“And what does this groom do?”

“He has the chief management of the stable.”

“What stable?”

“Why, yours, sir, the stable of the Opera.”

“Is there a stable at the Opera? Upon my word, I didn’t know. Where is it?”

“In the cellars, on the Rotunda side. It’s a very important department; we have twelve horses.”1

“Twelve horses! And what for, in heaven’s name?”

“Why, we want trained horses for the processions in the Juive, the Profeta2 and so on; horses ‘used to the boards.’ It is the grooms’ business to teach them. Lachenel is very clever at it. He used to manage Franconi’s stables.”3

“Very well ... but what does he want?”

“I don’t know; I never saw him in such a state.”

“He can come in.”

M. Lachenel came in, carrying a riding-whip, with which he struck his right boot in an irritable manner.

“Good morning, M. Lachenel,” said Richard, somewhat impressed. “To what do we owe the honour of your visit?”

“Mr. Manager, I have come to ask you to get rid of the whole stable.”

“What, you want to get rid of our horses?”

“I’m not talking of the horses, but of the stablemen.”

“How many stablemen have you, M. Lachenel?”

“Six.”

“Six stablemen! That’s at least two too many.”

“These are ‘places,’ ” Mercier interposed, “created and forced upon us by the under-secretary for fine arts. They are filled by protégées of the government and, if I may venture to ...”

“I don’t care a hang for the government!” roared Richard. “We don’t need more than four stablemen for twelve horses.”

“Eleven,” said the head riding-master, correcting him.

“Twelve,” repeated Richard.

“Eleven,” repeated Lachenel.

“Oh, the acting-manager told me that you had twelve horses!”

“I did have twelve, but I have only eleven since César was stolen.”

And M. Lachenel gave himself a great smack on the boot with his whip.

“Has César been stolen?” cried the acting-manager. “César, the white horse in the Profeta?”

“There are not two Césars,” said the stud-groom dryly. “I was ten years at Franconi’s and I have seen plenty of horses in my time. Well, there are not two Césars. And he’s been stolen.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. That’s why I have come to ask you to sack the whole stable.”

“What do your stablemen say?”

“All sorts of nonsense. Some of them accuse the supers. Others pretend that it’s the acting-manager’s doorkeeper ...”

“My doorkeeper? I’ll answer for him as I would for myself!” protested Mercier.

“But, after all, M. Lachenel,” cried Richard, “you must have some idea.”

“Yes, I have,” M. Lachenel declared.