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THE SONG OUT OF SEASON.

Point de culte sans mystère."

Scene.-A Corridor in a Château, with Busts and

Venice chandeliers.

MONSIEUR L’ÉTOILE.

Two Voices.

M. L'ÉTOILE (carrying a Rose).
TI
'HIS is the place. MUTINE said here.

“Through the Mancini room, and near
The fifth Venetian chandelier. . ."
The fifth ?She knew there were but four;
Still, here's the busto of the Moor.

(Humming.)
Tra-la, tra-la! If Bijou wake,
She 'll bark, no doubt, and spoil my shake !
I'll tap, I think. One can't mistake ;

This surely is the door.

(Sings softly.)
When Jove, the Skies' Director,

First saw you sleep of yore,
He cried aloud for Nectar,

"The Nectar quickly pour,

The Nectar, Hebe, pour !(No sound. I'll tap once more.)

(Sings again.)
Then came the Sire Apollo,

He past you where you lay;
Come, Dian, rise and follow

The dappled Hart to slay,
The rapid Hart to slay.””

(A rustling within.)

(Coquette ! She heard before.)

(Sings again.) And urchin Cupid after

Beside the Pillow curled,
He whispered you with Laughter,

Awake and witch the World,
O Venus, witch the World !""

(Now comes the last. 'Tis scarcely worse, I think, than Monsieur l'ABBÉ's verse.)

So waken, waken, waken,

O You, whom we adore !
Where Gods can be mistaken,

Mere Mortals must be more, -
Poor Mortals must be more !

(That merits an encore!)

So waken, waken, waken!

O You whom we adore!

(An energetic VOICE.) 'Tis thou, ANTOINE? Ah, Addle-pate! Ah, Thief of Valet, always late! Have I not told thee half-past eight A thousand times !

(Great agitation.)

But wait,—but wait,

M. L'ÉTOILE (stupefied). Just Skies ! What hideous roar!What lungs! The infamous Soubrette ! This is a turn I sha’nt forget:To make me sing my chansonnette

Before old JOURDAIN's door!

(Retiring slowly.) And yet, and yet,-it can't be she. They prompted her. Who can it be?

(A second Voice.) IT WAS THE ABBÉ TI-RI-LI!

(In a mocking falsetto.) Where Gods can be mistaken,

Mere Poets must be more,
BAD POETS must be more."

THE CAP THAT FITS.

Qui sème épines n'aille déchaux."

SCENE.--A Salon with blue and white Panels. Outside,

Persons pass and re-pass upon a Terrace.

HORTENSE. ARMANDE. MONSIEUR LOYAL.

HORTENSE (behind her fan).
OT young, I think.

NOT

ARMANDE (raising her eye-glass).

And faded, tool
Quite faded ! Monsieur, what say you?

M. LOYAL.
Nay,–I defer to you. In truth,
To me she seems all grace and youth.

HORTENSE.
Graceful? You think it? What, with hands
That hang like this (with a gesture).

ARMANDE.

And how she stands

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