The supple person who kicked the hat of FranÇois St. Cyr was a chorus girl. The troop in whose outrages she assisted was billed to infuriate Newark that evening. FranÇois St. Cyr would seek surcease in Newark. He would bind a new love on the heart bruised and broken by the jealous Bebe. Mon Dieu! yes!

The curtain went up. FranÇois St. Cyr inhabited a box. He was very still; no mouse was more so. No one noticed FranÇois St. Cyr. At last the chorus folk appeared.

“Brava! mam'selle, brava!” shouted FranÇois St. Cyr, springing to his feet, and performing with his hands as with cymbals.

What merited this outburst? The chorus folk had done nothing; hadn't slain a note, nor murdered a melody. The audience stared at the shouting FranÇois St. Cyr. What ailed the man? At last the audience admonished FranÇois St. Cyr.

“Sit down! Shut up!”

Those were the directions the public gave FranÇois St. Cyr.

“I weel not sit down! I weel not close up!” shouted FranÇois St. Cyr, bending over the box-rail and gesticulating like a monkey whose reason was suffering a strain. Then again to the chorus girl:

“Brava! mam'selle, brava!”

The other chorus girls looked disdainfully at the chorus girl whom FranÇois St. Cyr honoured, so as to identify her to the contempt of the public.