one would hear
very good music while sipping cool drinks under the trees. It should not
be a pleasure resort, but a lounging place, with a high price for
entrance in order to attract the fine ladies. One ought to be able to
stroll along well-graveled walks lit up by electric light, and to sit
down when one wished to hear the music near or at a distance. We had
about the sort of thing formerly at Musard's, but with a smack of the
low-class dancing-room, and too much dance music, not enough space, not
enough shade, not enough gloom. It would want a very fine garden and a
very extensive one. It would be delightful. Where shall we go?"

Duroy, rather perplexed, did not know what to say; at length he made up
his mind. "I have never been in the Folies Bergere. I should not mind
taking a look round there," he said.

"The Folies Bergere," exclaimed his companion, "the deuce; we shall
roast there as in an oven. But, very well, then, it is always funny
there."

And they turned on their heels to make their way to the Rue du Faubourg
Montmartre.

The lit-up front of the establishment threw a bright light into the four
streets which met in front of it. A string of cabs were waiting for the
close of the performance.

Forestier was walking in when Duroy checked him.

"You are passing the pay-box," said he.

"I never pay," was the reply, in a tone of importance.

When he approached the check-takers they bowed, and one of them held out
his hand. The journalist asked: "Have you a good box?"

"Certainly, Monsieur Forestier."

He took the ticket held out to him, pushed the padded door with its
leather borders, and they found themselves in the auditorium.

Tobacco smoke slightly veiled like a faint mist the stage and the
further side of the theater. Rising incessantly in thin white spirals
from the cigars and pipes, this light fog ascended to the ceiling, and
there, accumulating, formed under the dome above the crowded gallery a
cloudy sky.

In the broad corridor leading to the circular promenade a group of women
were awaiting new-comers in front of one of the bars, at which sat
enthroned three painted and faded vendors of love and liquor.

The tall mirrors behind them reflected their backs and the faces of
passers-by.

Forestier pushed his way through the groups, advancing quickly with the
air of a man entitled to consideration.

He went up to a box-keeper. "Box seventeen," said he.

"This way, sir."

And they were