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Updated: May 29, 2025
"The Biggest and Best Show in Europe," Rufus was reading aloud in a squeaky treble; "un-pre-ce-dented spectacles performing sea-lions great chariot-race the Legless Wonder from Iceland Warogha, the Missing Link the greatest living Lady Equestrian, Madame Gloria Marotti, Mad-rad oh, I can't read that Gyp Labelle, the darling of the Folies Bergeres what's Folies Bergeres, Robert ? Oh, my word my word!"
"What luck your being here. I didn't know you went in for frivolity of this sort if you call it frivolous dining in solitary state. Come over and join us. We're just having a bite before the show. You remember Mademoiselle Labelle, don't you?" Stonehouse nodded assent. He left his table at once. He seemed frigidly composed, but he was sure that she would not be deceived.
And she laughed and clapped her hands, and our tongues hung out we were that pleased. She's It, friends. It. Gyp Labelle from the Folies Bergeres and absolutely It." Rufus Cosgrave rolled over on his face and lay blinking out of the long grass like a sleepy, red-headed satyr. "Gyp Labelle," he said drowsily, "Gyp Labelle!" Robert knew that he was thinking of the Circus.
And looking down on her wasted, tortured body, Stonehouse had a momentary but extraordinarily vivid conviction that what she had said was true. She would persist. Whatever else happened, Gyp Labelle would go on having a good time. She could not be extinguished. There was in her some virtue altogether apart from the body a blazing vitality, an unquenchable, burning spirit.
These men of the Mounted Police were wide awake and were determined, we repeat, to prevent the criminal class from getting a foothold in this country. It is interesting to find in the same period that the Police never seemed to forget. As related above, Fournier and LaBelle had been executed in January, 1903, for the murder of Beaudien and Bouthilette.
The needle scratched under a shaking hand. "I'm Gyp Labelle; Come dance with me. . ." He bent over her so that his face almost touched hers. "I'm sorry I'm sorry, Gyp." She turned her head a little, her lips moving. It was evident that she had not really heard. But he knew that she had never borne him malice. And then suddenly it was over. He had broken through.
"Except for Cosgrave there, I've known Mademoiselle Labelle longer than any of you. I've known her ever since I was a boy." He felt rather than saw their expressions change. She too stared with an arrested interest, but he looked away from her to Cosgrave, smiling ironically. If it humiliated her and made her ridiculous too well, that was what he wanted.
In a few moments it began again. It was running off the final edition. James Hale, star reporter on the New York Eagle, who had a few minutes ago been the personification of dynamic activity, was now trying to get a rise out of Marie LaBelle, editor of the Heart Balm column. Marie was sitting slumped in the chair in front of the typewriter, trying to ignore his jibes.
With each act her gestures, her very dress became the clearer expression of an insatiable, uncurbed lust of living. At the end, the orchestra, as though it could not help itself, broke into the old doggerel tune that had helped to make her famous: "I'm Gyp Labelle."
The picture was gone almost before he knew what he had seen. But it was knife-sharp. It was as though a hand fumbling over a blank wall had touched by accident a secret spring and a door had flown wide open, closing instantly. "I'm Gyp Labelle; If you dance with me You must dance to my tune Whatever it be." She jumped into the incessant music as a child jumps into a whirling skipping-rope.
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