"J'ai que j'aime mieux chanter sans toute cette satanée musique, parbleu! J'aime mieux chanter toute seule!"
"Sans musique, alors—mais chantez—chantez!"
The band was stopped—the house was in a state of indescribable wonder and suspense.
She looked all round, and down at herself, and fingered her dress. Then she looked up to the chandelier with a tender, sentimental smile, and began:
"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice with hair so brown,
Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile—"
She had not got further than this when the whole house was in an uproar—shouts from the gallery—shouts of laughter, hoots, hisses, catcalls, cock-crows.
She stopped and glared like a brave lioness, and called out:
"Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc, tous! tas de vieilles pommes cuites que vous êtes! Est-ce qu'on a peur de vous?" and then, suddenly:
"Why, you're all English, aren't you?—what's all the row about?—what have you brought me here for?—what have I done, I should like to know?"