on the 20th of August last, and is still offered, to the delight of the Palais Royalists, is opened with a prologue, which might just as well be called a first act. Now, as either combination of five letters by which the Enemy is indicated in English is an uglyish word, suppose, without an affectation which might not sit well on countrymen of Milton, Defoe, and Byron, we use the substitutes that were suggested in the Rotund Caffy. Suppose that we speak of Pluto and Proserpine, as, before the modification of the game laws, landlords offered you lion or ostrich, meaning the legally forbidden hare or pheasant. But you will understand that no such disguise is used on the French stage, as will clearly appear presently, and that the first character on the list of the male dramatis personæ is Satan, and that the second in the lady-list is Madame Satan, an excellent place for inscribing a tribute to the humour of M. Hyacinthe and the pleasant effrontery of Madame Thierret.
The first scene is the bath-room of Sat—of Pluto. He is now in his bath, and unseen; but six demons are arranging his toilette-table, and they sing a little chorus in which they express an affectionate hope that by the aid of the curling-irons, Macassar oil (yes, does Mr. Rowland pay for the advertisement?), and perfumes, they shall be able to transform Him en vrai chérubin. Pluto’s voice is heard, bawling for more hot water, and the curtains of the bath being pulled apart, he is seen in his bath, and does not look in the least like the Pluto whom we have seen in our youth, in the furtively inspected cut of the lesson-book, listening to Orpheus, and weeping iron tears. He is “made up” with a faithful attention to the dramatist’s duty to remind Frenchmen of their responsibilities. His attendants send in the water too fast, upon which he flies into a dreadful rage, asks whether they regard him as a lobster, and demands milk of almonds. This, poured into the water, restores him to a better temper, and he expresses a hope that his Beauty, which has for a long time disappeared, will be restored by the magical effect of his bath. Soothed and flattered, he disappears, and presently comes in dressed, and eager to see himself in the glass. The trembling attendants present one, and the rage of Pluto, when he discovers that he is as ugly as ever, is something preternatural. He abuses the demons, and then—“Mabu” being quite a gentleman, apologises to himself, for having been betrayed into the use of objectionable language, but continues to rave, declares that he has tried everything that is advertised, vinaigre de Bully, at un franc cinquante, vinaigre Leotard (quoting the puffs), qui raffermit l’epiderme sans l’irriter, and heaps of other cosmetics; but that he is still almost as ugly as—himself. His want of attraction for the ladies of those parts—for he is a French Pluto—is his special grief, and he describes himself as having been much hurt by the rudeness of a little lady-fiend, to whom he paid a compliment, and who recommended him to go home and go to bed. The demons still endeavour to console him, by reminding him that whatever may be the bad taste of other ladies, his wife still adores him, a suggestion that puts him into a greater rage than ever. Madame Sat—that is to say Proserpine, has outlived her beauty, and he detests her. Then he reads the newspaper, “L’Opinion Tnfernale,” and passing over the doings of certain kings and princes, with a remark that he will have plenty of time to talk to them one of these days, he comes to the announcement that the Acheron, Captain Ashtaroth, has arrived, with a great number of lady-passengers, chiefly opera-dancers. These ladies he declares he must and will see, and he commands the demons, on pain of the most exceptional torments, to make him look captivating. While they are doing their best, the voice of Madame is heard, and Pluto, grumbling that he cannot be let alone, even in his bath-room, shouts out that he is not at-home.
Proserpine, however, stands no nonsense, boxes the ear of an unlucky demon who tries to stop her, and proceeds to scold her husband mightily, and to ridicule him for his attempts to beautify himself. He is clearly hen-pecked, but he remonstrates with her upon the vulgarity of her language, and upon her making a scandal. Let us behave properly, he urges, “hatred in the heart, a smile on the lip, à l’ Anglaise,” But the lady’s anger is demonstrative, and it is perfectly clear that she is intensely jealous, and not to be duped by Pluto’s protestations that he was not even aware of the arrivals that had been announced. A grand quarrel is interrupted by the news that an actor has arrived. Madame adores actors, and wants to see him. But Pluto plucks up a spirit, demands whether he is king in those parts or not, and sends Madame away that he may receive the condemned actor. She departs, but hints to the audience that she has taken such precautions as will prevent her lord from going very far wrong. Pluto demands his wings, and prepares to receive the new guest in the most imposing manner.
Enters, bodily, M. Brasseur, the favourite actor of the Palais Royal, He is not in the least frightened, and being recognised by everybody, Pluto remarking that he has got Brasseur’s photograph, explains that having had a quarrel with his managers, it was followed by a fit of apoplexy, and—of course—there he is, having come by the Barrière d’Enfer, a joke about as hackneyed as our “way to turn ’em green,” but which French wits seem to consider undying fun. The actor is extremely well received, but does not much like certain adjuncts of costume which suddenly grow out of his head, and is consoled by being told that they are the fashion. Henceforth he is called Belphegor, and becomes the accomplice of his new sovereign in his iniquitous plans for the recovery of his lost beauty, a loss made still more clear to Pluto by the way he is treated at a wild dance which follows in the next scene, amid a crowded orgy of the inhabitants of Tartarus. None of the ladies will have anything to say to the old dandy. His fury boils over, and he menaces everybody with the most tremendous chastisement if he is not informed what has become of son ancienne Beauté. He will put them into caldron number three, the one where the vipers are, he will
Then the secret is forced from the terrors of the demons. The disappearance of Pluto’s beauty is a trick of Madame Pluto’s.
Brasseur-Belphegor shows himself worthy the
