The clown thought it a favorable opportunity for carrying out his project.

He abruptly left his corner, flourishing his switch, and beating his banner, and, crossing the gallery, seated himself in a chair between Mme. Fauvel and the door.  As soon as the people had collected in a circle around him, he commenced to cough in an affected manner, like a stump orator about to make a speech.

Then he struck a comical attitude, standing up with his body twisted sideways, and his hat on one ear, and with great buffoonery and volubility made the following remarks: 

“Ladies and gentlemen, this very morning I obtained a license from the authorities of this town.  And what for?  Why gentlemen, for the purpose of exhibiting to you a spectacle which has already won the admiration of the four quarters of the globe, and several universities besides.  Inside of this booth, ladies, is about to commence the representation of a most remarkable drama, acted for the first time at Pekin, and translated into several languages by our most celebrated authors.  Gentlemen, you can take your seats; the lamps are lighted, and the actors are changing their dress.”

Here he stopped speaking, and imitated to perfection the feats which mountebanks play upon horns and kettle-drums.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” he resumed, “you wish to know what I am doing outside, if the piece is to be performed under the tent.  The fact is, gentlemen, that I wish to give you a foretaste of the agitations, sensations, emotions, palpitations, and other entertainments which you may enjoy by paying the small sum of ten sous.  You see this superb picture?  It represents eight of the most thrilling scenes in the drama.  Ah, I see you begin to shudder already; and yet this is nothing compared to the play itself.  This splendid picture gives you no more idea of the acting than a drop of water gives an idea of the sea, or a spark of fire of the sun.  My picture, gentlemen, is merely to give you a foretaste of what is in the tent; as the steam oozing from a restaurant gives you a taste, or rather a smell, of what is within.”

“Do you know this clown?” asked an enormous Turk of a melancholy Punch.

“No, but he can imitate a trumpet splendidly.”

“Oh, very well indeed!  But what is he driving at?”

The clown was endeavoring to attract the attention of Mme. Fauvel, who, since Raoul and Madeleine had left her, sat by herself in a mournful revery.

He succeeded in his object.

The showman’s shrill voice brought the banker’s wife back to a sense of reality; she started, and looked quickly about her, as if suddenly awakened from a troubled dream.

“Now, ladies, we are in China.  The first picture on my canvas, here, in the left corner”—­here he touched the top daub—­“represents the celebrated Mandarin Li-Fo, in the bosom of his family.  This pretty woman leaning over him is his wife; and these children playing on the carpet are the bonds of love between this happy pair.  Do you not inhale the odor of sanctity and happiness emanating from this speaking picture, gentlemen?