I sweated him down
valleys to Ambialet, to Roc-Amadour, I threaded him through
limestone caverns wherein I could have cut his throat and left
him, never to be missed. We struck up for the provincial
gaieties of Toulouse. We attended the Opera there--
_Il Trovatore_--and Farrell wept in his seat. I can see the
tears now--oozing out between the finger-stalls of a pair of
white-kid gloves he had been inspired to buy at the
_Bon Marche_. We also went to the theatre, where the company
performed _Les Vivacites du Capitaine Tic_.
"At the conclusion of this harmless comedy, Farrell said a really
good thing. He said it was funny enough and even instructive if
you looked at it from the right point of view; but for his part
(and I might call him advanced if I chose) he liked the sort of
musical comedy in which you spice a chicken to make 'em all fall
in love when they've eaten it; or at least, if it's to be
legitimate comedy, one in which they take off their clothes and
go to bed by mistake.
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