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 shant forget : To make me sing my chansonnette Before old PRUDHOMME's door! (Retiring slowly.) And yet, and yet,-it cant 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!" B 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.) Not young, I think. ARMANDE (raising her eye glass.) And faded, too!- Quite faded! Monsieur, what say you? |