The bachelors and male coquets of the Tahitians and French, with a sprinkling of all the foreigners in Papeete, the officers and crews of the war-ship Zelee and sailing vessels, smoked and endeavored to segregate vahines who appealed to them.  The dark procureur general from Martinique had an eye for beauty, and the private secretary of the governor was in his most gallant mood, a rakish cloth hat with a feather, a silver-headed stick, a suit of tight-fitting black, and a tiare Tahiti over his ear, marking him among the other Lotharios.

The band was led by a tall, impressive native who both beat and hummed the airs to guide the others.  A tune ended, the bandsmen hurried to mix with the audience, to smoke and flirt.  The shading acacia-trees lining the avenues permitted privacy for embraces, kisses, for making engagements, and for the singing of chansons and himenes of scandalous import.  Better than the Latin, the Tahitian likes direct words and candor in song.

French naval officers and sailors passed and repassed, or sought the obscurity of the mangoes or the acacias.  One heard the sibilance of kisses, the laughter, and the banter, the half-serious blows and scoldings of the vahines who repelled over-bold sailors.  In an hour the sedate and the older took leave; the governor and the procureur turned into the Cercle Militaire for whist or ecarte and a glass of wine, the carriages withdrew, and the band’s airs and manner of playing took on a new freedom and abandon.  A polka was begun, and couples danced upon the grass, the ladies in their peignoirs, their black hair floating, and their lips chanting, their wreaths and flowers nodding to their motions.

In retired nooks where the lamp-lights did not penetrate ardent ones threw themselves into the postures and agitations of the upaupa, the hula.

Boys now began to light the flambeaux for the retraite.  These were large bundles of cocoanut-husks and candlenuts soaked in oil, and they gave a generous flare.  Suddenly, we heard the mairie-bell tolling.  The band-leader climbed upon the roof of the kiosk, descended, and gave a vigorous beat upon the air for “the Marseillaise,” which ends all concerts.

It was quickly over, and seizing the flambeaux, all rushed from the Place du Gouvernement, lighting the way of the retraite, now more furious even than planned.  The band struck up, “There’ll be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night,” the drum and bugle made warlike notes, and down the rue de Rivoli we went madly toward the conflagration sighted by the leader.  After the band and the flambeaux-bearers danced the jolly commoners, with here and there a more important pair of legs, an English clerk, a tourist, or an official, all excited by the music, the torches, and the running to the fire.  The flambeaux reeled to and fro with the skipping and leaping of their carriers, the multitude sang loudly, and the music became broken as the leader lost control of his men.  They came to the house of the hose-cart, and transformed themselves into firemen, laying down their instruments and harnessing themselves to the lines.  Away we went again, now at top speed.  Other carts with apparatus dashed into the Broom Road from side streets and caught up with us.