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Updated: May 10, 2025
A man whose head-top had borne an advertisement of the Folie-Rouge to think he could be making a combat with the Prince Caravacioli! Leaning over the railing in the darkest corner of the terrace, I felt my hand grasped secondarily by that good friend of mine. "God bless you!" whispered Poor Jr. "On my soul, I believe he's done himself. Listen!" I turned.
My hair had been shaved off, all over my ears, leaving only a little above the back of the neck, to give an appearance of far-reaching baldness, and on my head was painted, in ah! so brilliant letters of distinctness: Theatre Folie-Rouge Revue de Printemps Tous les Soirs Such was the necessity to which I was at that time reduced!
As I sat with my eyes drooping before the gaze of my terrible and applauding audiences, how I mentally formed cursing words against the day when my misfortunes led me to apply at the Theatre Folie-Rouge for work!
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