Scene—An open air restaurant in the Champs-ElysÉes; the seats in the enclosure are rapidly filling; the diners in the gallery at the back have passed the salad stage, and are now free to take a more or less torpid interest in the Entertainment below. Enter Two Britons, who make their way to a couple of vacant chairs close to the orchestra.

First Briton. EntrÉe libre, you see; nothing to pay! Cheaper than your precious Exhibition, eh? [Chuckles knowingly.

Second Briton (who would rather have stayed at the Exhibition but doesn't like to say so). Don't quite see how they expect the thing to pay if they don't charge anything, though.

First B. Oh, they make their profit out of the dinners up in the gallery there.

Second B. (appreciating the justice of this arrangement, having dined with his companion elsewhere). Well, that's fair enough.

[Feels an increased respect for the Entertainment.

First B. Must get their money back somehow, you know. Capital seats for hearing, these. Now, we'll just take a cup of coffee, and a quiet cigar, while we listen to the singing—you'll enjoy this, I know!

[With the air of a man who knows the whole thing by heart; the Waiter brings two tumblers of black coffee, for which he demands the sum of six francs; lively indignation of the Two Britons, who denounce the charge as a swindle, and take some time to recover sufficient equanimity to attend to what is going on on the Stage.

Female Artiste (sings refrain)—

Pour notre Exposition,
Il faut nous faire imposition! &c., &c.

Second B. (who not being at home in the language, rather resents his companion's laughter). What's that she's saying?

First B. (who laughed because he knew there was a joke about the Exhibition). Eh?—oh! I'll tell you afterwards.

[Hopes his friend will have forgotten all about it by that time.

Second B. (pertinaciously, as the Singer kisses her hand, and rushes precipitately off stage). Well, what was all that about?

First B. (who, upon reflection, finds that he hasn't the faintest idea). Oh, nothing very much—more the manner, you know, than anything else—it's the men who have all the really funny songs.

[A Male Artiste appears, bowing and kicking up his left leg behind: the First Briton bends forward with an anxious frown, determined to let nothing escape him this time. Fortunately, as M. Charlemagne, the Comic Singer, possesses a powerful voice, the First Briton is able to follow most of the words, from which, although they reach his ear in a somewhat perverted form, he contrives to extract intense amusement. This is how the Chanson reaches him:—

Seul boulevard silent vous arrÊte:
Quand monde a tout dÉpart n'amas,

[He can't quite make out this last word.

Repondez vitement—

[Something he doesn't catch.

Le fou l'eau sitÔt vous crie "un rat!"

[Here he whispers to his friend that "That last line was rather neat."

Refrain (to which M. Charlemagne dances a gavotte with his hat thrust into the small of his back).

Il n'a pas dÉpart Dinard.

[This makes the First Briton—who once spent a week at Dinard—laugh immoderately.

Ne Pa, ne Ma! (bis)
C'Était pas tant, mais sais comme Ça—
Il n'a pas dÉpart Dinard,
Il non a pas certain-y-mal lÀ!

First Briton (to Second Ditto). Very funny, isn't he?

Second B. (who—less fortunate than his friend—has not caught a single word). Um—can't say I see much in it myself.

First B. (compassionately). Can't you? Oh, you'll get into the way of it presently.

Second B. But what's the joke of all that about "Pa"?

First B. (who has been honestly under the impression that he did see a point somewhere). Why, he says he's an orphan—hasn't any Pa nor Ma.

Second B. (captiously). Well, there's nothing so very funny in that!

First B. (giving up the point on consideration, as M. Charlemagne skips off). Oh, it's all nonsense, of course; these fellows only come on to fill up the time till PÔlusse sings (feels rather proud of having caught the right pronunciation). PÔlusse is the only one really worth listening to.

Second B. (watching two Niggers in a Knockabout Entertainment). I can follow these chaps better. [Complacently.

One of the Niggers [to the other]. Ha, George Washington, Sar. I'll warm you fur dat ar conduck!

First B. (in a superior manner). Oh, yes; you soon get into the accent.

[Later—M. Charlemagne has re-appeared, and sung a song about changing his apartments, with spoken passages of a pronouncedly Parisian character.

First B. (who little suspects what he has been roaring with laughter at). That fellow really is amusing. I must take Nellie to hear him some night before we go back.

Second B. (dubiously). But aren't some of the songs—for a girl of her age—eh?

First B. My dear fellow, not a bit! I give you my word I haven't heard a single line yet that was in the least offensive—not a single line! Anybody might go! Look here—it's PÔlusse next; now you listen—he'll make you laugh!

[The great M. Paulus appears and sings several Chansons in a confidentially lugubrious tone, and with his forefingers thrust into his waistcoat pockets. Curiously enough, our First Briton is less successful in following M. Paulus than he was with the Artistes who preceded him—but this is entirely owing to the big drum and cymbals, which will keep coming in and putting him out—something in this manner:—

M. Paulus. Et quand j'rentr', ce n'est pour rien—
Ma belle me dit: "Mon pauv' bonhomme,
Tu n'a pas l'air de"—(The cymbals: brim-brin-brien!)
Ell' m' flanqu' des giffl's—(The drum: pom-pom-pom-pom!)
Refrain (which both Britons understood).
"Sur le bi—sur le bÔ; sur le bÔ, de bi, de bÔ.
Sur le bÔ—sur le bi; sur le bi, de bÔ, de bi!" &c., &c., &c.

First Briton (after twenty minutes of this sort of thing). That's the end, I suppose. They've let down the curtain. Capital, wasn't he? I could listen to him all night!

Second B. (as they pass out). So could I—delightful! Don't know when I've enjoyed anything so much. The other people don't seem to be moving, though. (Consults programme.) There's another Part after this; Paulus is singing again. I suppose you'll stay?

First B. Well—it's rather late, isn't it?

Second B. (much relieved). Yes. Not worth while going back now (with a yawn). We must come here again.

First B. (making a mental resolution to return no more). Oh, we must; nothing like it on our side of the Channel, y' know.

Second B. (with secret gratitude). No, we can't do it. (Walk back to their hotel in a state of great mental exhaustion, and finish the evening with a bock on the Boulevards.)