Il a l'air de m'enlacer
Je perds la tête
'Suis comme une bête!
'Y a pas chose—'suis sa chose à lui
'Y a pas mal—Quoi? C'est mon mari
Car moi, je l'aime
J'aime mon grand frisé."
The audience sang the swinging chorus, and she moved sinuously to and fro with the rhythm of it. Humphrey sat there, and he seemed to lose consciousness of all the other people in the room—the smell of the smoke, and the jingle of the piano, and the ill-painted pictures on the walls faded away from him; all his senses seemed to merge and concentrate on the enjoyment of this moment. She was singing on the stage for him, her narrow eyes never left him.
And her song was a pæan in praise of the brute in man.
She acted her song. Her face was radiant with the joy of being possessed, and her eyes shone as she abandoned herself to the words: