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Updated: June 29, 2025
Superficially there was little astonishing in the Bal Tabarin; but to the uninitiated being with wide eyes it seemed in very truth the gay world, with its stirring music, its walls flaunting their mirrors and their paintings, its galleries with their palms and railed-in boxes, and beneath subtly suggestive adjunct the bars, with their countless bottles of champagne, bottles of every conceivable size built up in serried rows as though Venus would raise an altar to Bacchus.
Most of his new friends wanted to have supper at Maxim's or to go to the Bal Tabarin. They wouldn't believe him when he insisted that these places were not what they used to be, and that Montmartre was now the fashionable roistering ground. So he took them to Maxim's and was glad of it afterwards. There wasn't a New Yorker in sight.
In front of this painting stands a staging of rough planks, reproducing the little theatre of Tabarin. Here, every evening, the authors and poets play in their own pieces, recite their verses, and tell their stories.
You're too theoretical to-night for a place of traditions. We'll shelve our little cabaret till some hour when genius burns, and instead I'll plunge you straight into common frivolity, as though you were some Cockney tourist getting his week-end's worth! Have you ever heard of the Bal Tabarin?" "Never. And I would much much rather " "No, you wouldn't! I have spoken. Come along!"
The curtain falls upon the tragedy, and the excited audience disperses. The story is peculiarly Italian in its motive, though the composer has been charged with taking it from "La Femme de Tabarin," by the French novelist, Catulle Mendès.
Alas! Alas!" Max pushed the cup away, as if to remove a side issue. "Answer the question I put to you! You know that I am a woman?" "Yes; I know." "Since when? Since the night at the Bal Tabarin?" "Oh, but no!" "Since the morning we met upon this doorstep?" "No." "Since the morning you made the coffee for M. Blake and me?" Jacqueline was twisting the buckle of her belt in nervous perturbation.
Gaynsforth drew nearer and nearer to him. He even let his hand stray over his person, as though to be sure that he was not carrying too much in his pockets. "Say, old man," he whispered in his ear, they were sitting side by side now in the Bal Tabarin, "if you are going on like this, Heaven knows where you'll land at the end of it all!
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