ested faces and painted cheeks. Part of the place
is a theater with a vaudeville show much like any other. Another part is
a vast "promenoir" where you may walk up and down or sit at a little
table and drink bad brandy at one franc and a half. In a fenced off part
are the Oriental Dances, a familiar feature of every Parisian Show.
These dances--at twenty cents a turn--are supposed to represent all the
languishing allurement of the Oriental houri--I think that is the word.
The dancers in Paris--it is only fair to state--have never been nearer
to the Orient than the Faubourg St. Antoine, where they were brought up
and where they learned all the Orientalism that they know. Their "dance"
is performed with their feet continuously on the ground--never lifted, I
mean--and is done by gyrations of the stomach, beside which the
paroxysms of an overdose of Paris green are child's play. In seeing
these dances one realizes all the horrors of life in the East.

Not everyone, however, can be an Oriental dancer in a French pleasure
show. To qualify you must be as scrawny as a Parisian cab-horse, and it
appears as if few debutantes could break into the profession under the
age of forty. The dances go on at intervals till two in the morning,
after which the Oriental houri crawls to her home at the same time as
the Parisian cab-horse--her companion in arms.

Under the Moulin Rouge, and in all similar places, is a huge dance hall:
It has a "Hungarian Orchestra"--a fact which is proved by the red and
green jackets, the tyrolese caps, and by the printed sign which says,
"This is a Hungarian Orchestra." I knew that they were Hungarians the
night I saw them, because I distinctly heard one of them say, "what
t'ell do we play next boys?" The reference to William Tell was obvious.
After every four tunes the Orchestra are given a tall stein of beer, and
they all stand up and drink it, shouting "Hoch!" or "Ha!" or "Hoo!" or
something of the sort. This is supposed to give a high touch of local
colour. Everybody knows how Hungarians always shout out loud when they
see a glass of beer. I've noticed it again and again in sugar
refineries.

The Hungarians have to drink the beer whether they like it or not--it's
part of their contract. I noticed one poor fellow who was playing the
long bassoon, and who was doing a double night-shift overtime. He'd had
twenty-four pints of beer already, and there were still two hours before
closing time. You could tell