— Is everything okay? Wrong audience.
— Ah! Don't even talk to me about it! The play is ruined!
He shrugs and mutters crude insults at the extras. He concludes:
— The queen is poorly built, like the others. She's going to be inserted at the climax of Act Two.
— It's true, she's like Jeanneton's doll.
The author reflects:
— We need a beautiful girl. A well-built woman to ensure success. Because, without boasting, the text isn't too bad.
And suddenly, the author turns to his wife:
— Undress. You only have a little time left. You have nothing to say in the climax. Come on, quickly. Only you can save the play!
She begins to undress obediently.
She is charming, completely naked. The loincloth suits her perfectly. The audience applauds. The game is won. And the play will have a hundred performances.
VI
For some time now, Yvette hasn't been seen at the little bar.
She used to come regularly with her friend at aperitif time. She would sit on a stool in front of the mahogany counter. The supple hip movements — the twists, as Brantôme would say — she performed to sit more comfortably emphasized her round, full, and firm forms under the tight, light dress like a silk swimsuit.
It's a very interesting sight, a beautiful girl on a barstool. But the test shouldn't be recommended to the thin, the too slender, the young ladies with a "fashionable silhouette" just good enough to be a coat rack.
Now, Yvette's friend sits alone, chewing on straws with a gloomy air, looking like a ruminant.
