Bang! Bang! Bang! pounded thrice the stage manager with measured precision, and, with a final glance at the people on the stage, gave the signal to the head electrician who turned a switch. Up went the curtain.
For the three hours that ensued during the _revue_, ballets succeeded ballets. There were burlesques upon current topics and singing choruses. All through this the stage management was perfect.
When you consider the lack of room it was all the more remarkable.
“You see,” said the stage manager, during one of his free minutes, “we are terribly cramped for room here upon this old stage. Our biggest flats we set with this panorama arrangement”—and he pointed to two giant rollers, one on either side of the stage. Then, leading the way beneath the stage, he showed me the two great wheels and the dynamo that moved them.
“Look out!” said he, as we returned to the stage, “that is the finale of the _commère’s_ song and we are going to make a quick change. Stand there!” he said, and instinctively I jumped for the spot he indicated. At the same instant the two electricians pulled a combination of switches and everything went black.
Scene-shifters hurried through the gloom with awkward sections of scenery, all of which had to be taken back through a doorway and replaced in order where they had come from. Others hurried on the stage with properties and sections for the new set.
The stage was, fortunately, warm, otherwise many of the _petites Parisiennes_ who were descending the winding stairs would have suffered from even the slightest current of air, for most of their clothes had been left in the dressing-rooms above.
I saw among this “big family,” that are together during a long season, the best of _camaraderie_ and unusual deference and courtesy by every man toward the women.
During the second act I found that exceedingly _chic_ and attractive _comédienne_, Mademoiselle Léa Dorville, in her loge.
Every available corner of her small room did good service. Rows of pink and Nile green silk petticoats, _frous-frous_ and things hung from hooks under cretonned shelves.
Other hooks held mademoiselle’s stage hats, some of them as big as circus hoops. Her duchesse table was a veritable museum of little necessaries: hare’s-feet and powder puffs, mirrors, sticks of grease paint, a pot of cold cream with a silver top, a box of _poudre de riz_, rouge for her lips, for her nails, for the tips of her ears. It was all artificial, but it was nevertheless one real side of life. Serious gaiety if you will, since to survive the daily routine of the stage is hard work.