[_Here he whispers to his friend that "That last line was rather neat."_
_Refrain_ (_to which_ M. CHARLEMAGNE _dances a gavotte with his hat
thrust into the small of his back_).
Il n'a pas depart Dinard.
[_This makes the_ FIRST BRITON--_who once spent a week at Dinard--laugh
immoderately_.
Ne Pa, ne Ma! (_bis_)
C'etait pas tant, mais sais comme ca--
Il n'a pas depart Dinard,
Il non a pas certain-y-mal la!
FIRST BRITON (_to Second Ditto_). _Very_ funny, isn't he?
SECOND B. (_who--less fortunate than his friend--has not caught a single
word_). Um--can't say I see much in it myself.
FIRST B. (_compassionately_). Can't you? Oh, you'll get into the way of
it presently.
SECOND B. But what's the joke of all that about "Pa"?
FIRST B. (_who has been honestly under the impression that he did see a
point somewhere_). Why, he says he's an orphan--hasn't any Pa nor Ma.
SECOND B. (_captiously_). Well, there's nothing so very funny in _that_!
FIRST B. (_giving up the point on consideration, as_ M. CHARLEMAGNE
_skips off_). Oh, it's all nonsense, of course; these fellows only come
on to fill up the time till Polusse sings (_feels rather proud of having
caught the right pronunciation_). Polusse is the only one really worth
listening to.
SECOND B. (_watching two Niggers in a Knockabout Entertainment_). I can
follow _these_ chaps better. [_Complacently._
_One of the Niggers_ [_to the other_]. Ha, George Washington, Sar. I'll
warm you fur dat ar conduck!
FIRST B. (_in a superior manner_). Oh, yes; you soon get into the
accent.
[_Later_--M. CHARLEMAGNE _has re-appeared, and sung a song
about changing his apartments, with spoken passages of a
pronouncedly Parisian character_.
FIRST B. (_who little suspects what he has been roaring with laughter
at_). That fellow really _is_ amusing. I must take Nellie to hear him
some night before we go back.
SECOND B. (_dubiously_). But aren't some of the songs--for a girl of her
age--eh?
FIRST B. My dear fellow, not a bit! I give you my word I haven't heard a
single line yet that was in the least offensive--not a single line!
_Any_body might go! Look here--it's Polusse next; now you
listen--_he'll_ make you laugh!
[_The great_ M. PAULUS _appears and sings several Chansons in a
confidentially lugubrious tone, and with his forefingers thrust
into his waistcoat pockets. Curiously enough, our_ FIRST BRITON
_is less successful in following_ M. PAULUS _than he was with
the Artistes who preceded him--but this is entirely owing to
the big drum and cymbals, which will keep coming in and putting
him out--something in this manner_:--
M. PAULUS. Et quand j'rentr', ce n'est pour rien--
Ma belle me dit: "Mon pauv' bonhomme,
Tu n'a pas l'air de"--(_The cymbals_: brim-brin-brien!)
Ell' m' flanqu' des giffl's--(_The drum_: pom-pom-pom-pom!)
_Refrain_ (_which both Britons understood_).
"Sur le bi--sur le bo; sur le bo, de bi, de bo.
Sur le bo--sur le bi; sur le bi, de bo, de bi!" &c., &c., &c.
FIRST BRITON (_after twenty minutes of this sort of thing_). That's the
end, I suppose. They've let down the curtain. _Capital_, wasn't he? I
could listen to him all night!
SECOND B. (_as they pass out_). So could I--delightful! Don't know when
I've enjoyed anything so much. The other people don't seem to be moving,
though. (_Consults programme._) There's another Part after this; Paulus
is singing again. I suppose you'll stay?
FIRST B. Well--it's rather late, isn't it?
SECOND B. (_much relieved_). Yes. Not worth while going back now (_with
a yawn_). We must come here again.
FIRST B. (_making a mental resolution to return no more_). Oh, we must;
nothing like it on our side of the Channel, y' know.
SECOND B. (_with secret gratitude_). No, we can't do it. (_Walk back to
their hotel in a state of great mental exhaustion, and finish the
evening with a bock on the Boulevards._)