I thought this story was overdrawn, but, after traveling over
somewhat the same route which this fellow countryman had taken, I
came to the conclusion that it was no exaggeration, but a true
bill in all particulars. On the night of our second day in Paris
we went to a theater to see one of the topical revues, in which
Paris is supposed to excel; and for sheer dreariness and blatant
vulgarity Paris revues do, indeed, excel anything of a similar
nature as done in either England or in America, which is saying
quite a mouthful.
In the French revue the members of the chorus reach their artistic
limit in costuming when they dance forth from the wings wearing
short and shabby undergarments over soiled pink fleshings and any
time the dramatic interest begins to run low and gurgle in the
pipes a male comedian pumps it up again by striking or kicking a
woman. But to kick her is regarded as much the more whimsical
conceit. This invariably sets the audience rocking with uncontrollable
merriment. Howsomever, I am not writing a critique of the merits
of the performance. If I were I shou1d say that to begin with the
title of the piece was wrong. It should have been called Lapsus
Lingerie--signifying as the Latins would say, "A Mere Slip." At
this moment I am concerned with what happened upon our entrance.
At the door a middle-aged female, who was raising a natty mustache,
handed us programs.
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