Mme. Gautier
sing "Le Cid," by Massenet, and the Princess Tekau accompany her
effectively on the piano. A solo de piston, a violin, a flute, all
played by Tahitians, entertained us, and then came the fun. M. X----
was down for a monologue. Who could it be? He bounced on the stage in
a Prince-Albert coat and a Derby hat, rollicking, truculent, plainly
exhilarated. Why, it was M. Lontane in disguise, the second in command
of the police, the hero of the battle of the limes, the coal, and
the potatoes. He gave a side-splitting burlesque of the conflict. He
acted the drunken stoker, the man who would write to "The Times"
when M. Lontane placed his pistol at his stomach, and he made us see
the fruit and coal flying. It was all good natured, and his dialogue
(monologue) amusing. We saw how we Anglo-Saxons appeared to the French,
and learned how the hoarse growl of the British sailor sounded.

The governor was delighted, the inspecteurs also. The officials
took their cue, the entire audience laughed, and the galleries of
children, not understanding at all, but convulsed at the antics of
the head policeman, yelled encore. The British consul grinned, and the
governor turned and winked at him. The entente cordiale was cemented
again. The second in command, who provoked the sundering of the tie,
had reunited it by his comicality. Ire dissolved in glee.

A play followed, in which several of the players were in the audience,
and in which my barber, M. Bontet, shone, and moving-pictures
followed. The babies were long asleep, and we yawning when we were
dismissed at half past twelve.

Bemis, the cocoanut-buyer, sat through the entr'acte, not accompanying
me to the buffet. He received a shock during the handing out of
the premiums and was silent afterward. Bemis was a striking man,
because the very regular features of his young face were set off by
a mass of white hair. He was placid, without a disturbing intellect,
and interested solely in the price and condition of fresh cocoanuts
for shipment. I had seen him start when a little girl of distinctive
expression was called to the stage to receive her book. She sat with
her mother and putative father, and their other children. When I
first saw her, I pulled his arm.

"Bemis," I said, "for heaven's sake, look at that girl!"

He looked, and his face tensed, growing ashen white. "She's the image
of you, Bemis," I pursued.

"For God's sake, talk low!" he cautioned. "People are rubberi