He put his muddy boots on the fauteuils, did mon ami Thomas; he fell in love with a gay woman of the Boulevards whose skin was all plastered up like an old cathedral; he ate oysters with a hair-pin at dinner; he offered his toothpick to his vis-a-vis, and altogether conducted himself in such a manner that one was forced to say to him (chorus), Ah, my friend Thomas! at Paris that’s hardly done.  Ah, mon ami Thomas! at Paris that is not done at all.  The audience is in ecstasies of delight at this ill-bred conduct on the part of the cousin from the provinces—­secretly conscious as they are, even though they be blousards, that they are Parisians, and know how to behave themselves in a polite manner; and the vocalist, recovering from his last grimace, gives them another dose.  He relates that his friend Thomas wanted to go to the grand opera; so he took him to the Funambules:  the fool swallowed that—­il a gobe ca!—­and when the tenor began to sing Thomas roared out, “Tais-toi donc!” and began to bellow a comic song, whereupon I dragged him out, protesting (Chorus), Ah, mon ami Thomas! a Paris ca n’se fait guere.  Ah, mon ami Thomas! a Paris ca n’se fait pas!

When a sentimental song is sung the audience pay little attention.  To patriotic songs they listen respectfully.  A song which breathes the glories of literature as represented by Montaigne, Jean Jacques Rousseau, and Moliere is tolerated idly.  But when the stage is presently cleared for a ballet the young blousards—­for they are mostly young men who gather here—­are all attention.  What is their disgust at perceiving that the dancers are men in ancient Greek costumes, who do a sword-fight to music, with periods of sudden tableau-attitude striking!  They are a bit ridiculous, these Greeks, flopping about the stage in tights and tunics, and presently three or four blousards near me begin to guy the performance.  “Ah-h-h!” they cry, grinning broadly; “ah, ah, ha! ha-a-a-a!”—­putting into this utterance a world of amused scorn.  The “regulator” of the establishment—­a solemn man in a tail-coat who walks about the hall preserving order—­gets angry at this.  “Restez tranquilles,” he says to the jeerers, with expressive and emphatic forefinger leveled at the group.  Whereupon one of them, a handsome chap in a soft hat, leans his elbows squarely on the table in front of him, wags his head saucily and openly chaffs the solemn regulator.  “Ah, bah!” he says, “do we come here to keep still?” The superintendent threatens to call the police:  the blousards laugh him to scorn.  “You would make a fine figure of yourself bringing here the police, wouldn’t you?  Look then at what we have consumed!” pointing to the empty glasses before him on the table.  “Go along, then, do—­go quickly—­and bring here the police, old wag that you are!” The regulator perceives the force of this argument.  “But they should be more respectful,” he says, appealing to me:  “n’est ce pas, m’sieu?” and with this walks away.  The hall is so large, and the noise which fills it so prodigious, that this little altercation has attracted no general attention, as it must have done in a quieter place.