THE METAMORPHOSIS "On s'enrichit quand on dort." SCENE. A high stone Seat in an Alley of clipped Lime-trees. THE ABBÉ TIRILI. MONSIEUR L'ÉTOILE. THE ABBÉ (writing). "THIS shepherdess Dorine adored_" What rhyme is next? Implored?-ignored? Poured?-soared?-afford? That facile Dunce, L'ÉTOILE, would cap the line at once. 'Twill come in time. Meanwhile, suppose We take a meditative doze. (Sleeps. By and by his paper falls.) M. L'ÉTOILE (approaching from the back). Some one before me. Monsieur the Scholar? What! 'tis you, Sleeping too! (Picks up the fluttering paper.) More "Tales," of course One can't refuse To chase so fugitive a Muse! Verses are public, too, that fly Insane! "CLITANDER AND DORINE." This passes all. 'Tis "furiously" classical!) "No doubt their Purpose oft would be 6 Some Nodus dignus Vindice'; 'On dit,' not less, these earthward Tours Were mostly Matters of Amours. And Woe to him whose luckless Flame Ere he could say an 'Ave' o'er, They changed him-like a Louis-d'or." A Shepherdess, by name Dorine. Trim Waist, ripe Lips, bright Eyes, had she;---In short, the whole Artillery. Her Beauty made some local Stir ;– Implored, ignored, and soared, and poured— (He's scrawled them here!) His fable on his second leaf. (Writes.) We'll sum in brief There, they shall know who 'twas that wrote:"L'ÉTOILE'S is but a mock-bird's note." [Exit. But where, THE ABBÉ (waking). Implored's the word, I think. Where is my paper? Ah! 'tis there! Eh! what? (Reads.) THE METAMORPHOSIS The Shepherdess Dorine adored L'ÉTOILE,-by all the Muses! Peste! He's off, post-haste, to tell the rest. 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). HIS is the place. MUTINE said here. THIS 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, He'll bark, no doubt, and spoil my shake! 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,- (No sound. I'll tap once more.) (Sings again.) "Then came the Sire Apollo, (Coquette! She heard before.) (Sings again.) "And urchin Cupid after (Now comes the last. "Tis scarcely worse, I think, than Monsieur l'ABBÉ's verse.) "So waken, waken, waken, - Mere Mortals must be more, (That merits an encore.) "So waken, waken, waken! |