Mere Mortals must be more.— Peor 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 shan't 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!" B THE CAP THAT FITS. "Qui sème épines n'aille dechaux." 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? 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! M. LOYAL. Nay, I am wrong again. I thought Her air delightfully untaught! HORTENSE. But you amuse me— M. LOYAL. Still her dress, Her dress at least, you must confess |