The end of the dance and the very discreet sound of applause break the spell.
I disappear, I return for my bow, I flash a smile in every direction . . . In the rear of the salon, the silhouette of a man gesticulates and cries, “Bravo!”
I know that voice, that tall black dummy . . .
Yes, it’s my idiot from that night! It’s the big ninny! . . .
Anyway, I can’t remain in doubt for long, because here he is, his head lowered, entering the little room where my pianist is rejoining me.
He’s not alone; he’s accompanied by another tall, dark ninny who certainly looks like the man of the house.
This last man greets me: “Madame . . . ”
“Sir . . . ”
“Will you permit me to thank you for agreeing, on short notice, to lending your talents to . . . and to express all my admiration for you . . . ”
“Please, sir! . . . ”
“My name is Henri Dufferein-Chautel.”
“Oh, of course! . . .
“And this is my brother, Maxime Dufferein-Chautel, who is so eager to be introduced to you . . . ”
My big ninny of that recent day greets me again and succeeds in taking hold of and kissing a hand that was busy pulling together the blue veil . . . Then he remains standing there, saying nothing, much less at his ease than he was in my dressing room . . .
Meanwhile, Dufferein-Chautel No. 1, embarrassed, is crumpling a sealed envelope:
“I . . . I don’t know whether I’m supposed to give this to Monsieur Salomon, your agent . . . or to you . . . ”
Dufferein-Chautel No. 2, suddenly blushing under his dark skin, darts a furious, wounded look at him; and there are the two of them competing in stupidity!
What’s there to be embarrassed about?
Cheerfully I get them out of their fix:
“Why, to me, sir, it’s as simple as that!
Give me that envelope, or rather slip it into my sheet music, because I confess in all confidence that my dancing costume has no pockets! . . . ”
They both burst out laughing, with a roguish laugh of relief; declining the sly offer of Dufferein-Chautel No. 2, who is worried I might be attacked by the apaches of Les Ternes, I am able to go home alone, happily lock away my big five-hundred-franc note, go to bed, and sleep.
TRYING TO insert my hand into the box where they leave the mail—a little case nailed to the side of the ticket takers’ desk—on this Friday night I disturb a good-looking pimp wearing a peaked cap, one of the classic types so abundant in the neighborhood.
Although popularized by drawings, cartoons, plays, and vaudeville acts, the pimp remains faithful to his sweater or collarless colored shirt, to his cap, to his jacket, which his hands, thrust into its pockets, tighten flatteringly at the hips, and to his extinguished cigarette and his noiseless slippers . . . On Saturdays and Sundays, these gentlemen fill half of our Empyree-Clichy, lining the balcony; they shell out two francs twenty-five to reserve the cane-bottomed chairs that abut the stage.
They’re loyal fans who converse with the performers, hoot them, applaud them, and know just when to call out a dirty word or scatological exclamation that will set the whole house roaring.
Sometimes their success goes to their head, and the situation becomes a riot.
From one balcony to another there’s an exchange, in lusty slang, of dialogues prepared in advance; then shouts are followed by missiles, which lead to the prompt arrival of the cops . . . The performer onstage will do well to wait, with a neutral expression and modest demeanor, until the storm is over, if he doesn’t want to see a change in the trajectory of the oranges, rolled-up programs, and small coins.
Simple prudence also cautions him not to go on with his interrupted song.
But, I repeat, these are brief storms, skirmishes that occur only on Saturdays and Sundays.
Order is maintained very well at the Empyree-Clichy, where you can feel the energy of the manageress—the boss-lady!
A lively brunette, covered with jewelry, the boss-lady presides over the box office, tonight like every other night.
Her bright, alert eyes see everything, and the house cleaners don’t dare forget the dust in the dark corners during their morning rounds.
Just now those frightening eyes were darting lightning at a genuine beefy and well-known apache who had come to purchase the right to occupy one of the best cane-bottomed chairs adjacent to the stage, one of those in the first balcony, where you lord it, crouching like a toad with your arms on the railing and your chin resting on your crossed hands.
The boss-lady is giving him a dressing-down, calmly, but she looks just like a lion tamer!
“Take back your forty-five sous and beat it!”
The husky guy, his arms dangling, sways like a bear:
“Why, Madame Barnet?
What did I do?”
“Oh, sure, ‘what did I do?’
You think I didn’t see you last Saturday?
Weren’t you in seat one in the balcony?”
“Yeah!”
“Wasn’t it you who stood up during the pantomime and said,
‘She’s showing only one tit, I wanna see both! I paid two francs, one per tit’?”
The husky guy, blushing, defends himself, hand on heart:
“Me? Me? Look here, Madame Barnet, I know how to behave, I know that such things aren’t done!
I assure you, Madame Barnet, that it wasn’t me who . . . ”
The queen of the Empyree extends a merciless right hand.
“No fibbing!
I saw you, didn’t I?