A café in a music-hall, representing a grotto, fantastically decorated. Tables and chairs on both sides. Men and women are seated at the tables, smoking and taking refreshments. Waiters pass in and out continually. At the back, an orchestra of gypsies.
Mr. Jacob stands talking with an Artist. Ruhu-Sahib, at a table, drinks enormously.
Jacob. [To the Artist] But this? What do you think of this? Allow me. Here is the best point of view.
Artist. Marvellous! Magical!
Jacob. You are surprised to see this, eh? Now what do you say? Pardon, allow me. Here is another point of view.
Artist. Marvellous! Magical!
Jacob. My own idea! It didn't occur to me in a moment. Ideas like this don't occur every day. The entire café converted into a grotto—rest for the body, recreation for the soul after the brilliancy of the spectacle. In all Europe, in all America, there is nothing to equal it. It is the most magnificent music-hall in the world—four million francs invested in it. You may say so in your paper.
Artist. In my paper? Oh, Mr. Jacob, I am not a reporter!
Jacob. What? You are not the correspondent of the Dramatic Courier of Milan, of the Genoa Manager's Monitor?
Artist. I did not say
Jacob. But the card you sent in to the office?
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