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).
THIS
'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 Fove, the Skies' Director,

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

"The Nectar quickly pour,-
The Nectar, Hebe, pour !

יי!

(No sound.

I'll tap once more.)

6

(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!

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, too!-
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