“Let’s go in!” Caracal proposed. “It shall be the last.”
“I shall leave you afterward,” said Phil.
They entered. A blonde girl, with a thin, colorless voice and childish gestures and little smirks, was singing:
“Les bosquets du Bois d’Boulogne
Ous’ qu’on fait Zizi pan pan!”
Her place was taken by a chansonnier rosse, fat and bald. This one began at once, in an aggressive tone, a political satire. What? there was a couplet against Americans—Richard the Lion-hearted again, and then a direct allusion to a certain American miss—in this sewer!
“Phil rose up, pale with anger”
Phil rose up, pale with anger. He would have smashed things, and shut the mouth of the fat brute bellowing on the stage; but suddenly he thought that he might compromise Miss Rowrer. He sat down, clenching his fist.