Just as they
entered, the premier clown, in spangles and peak cap, bounded into
the ring. Through the coating of powder on it they recognized his
wrinkly, mobile face: it was the sketch-making stranger whose
handiwork they had admired not half an hour before.
Hearing the tale we went to the same circus and saw the same clown.
His ears were painted bright red--the red ear is the inevitable
badge of the French clown--and he had as a foil for his funning a
comic countryman known on the program as Auguste, which is the
customary name of all comic countrymen in France; and, though I
knew only at second hand of his sketch-making abilities, I am
willing to concede that he was the drollest master of pantomime
I ever saw. On leaving the circus, very naturally we went to the
cafe--where the first part of the little dinner comedy had been
enacted. We encountered both artists, professional or amateur, of
blacklead and bristol board, but we met a waiter there who was
an artist--in his line. I ordered a cigar of him, specifying
that the cigar should be of a brand made in Havana and popular in
the States. He brought one cigar on a tray. In size and shape
and general aspect it seemed to answer the required specifications.
The little belly band about its dark-brown abdomen was certainly
orthodox and regular; but no sooner had I lit it and taken a couple
of puffs than I was seized with the conviction that something had
crawled up that cigar and died.
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