Part 37 (1/2)

”_Entrez, Messieurs_, and see the beautiful female Juggler of Naples, who tosses ten sharp knives and burning brands into the air at one and the same time, not lets one of them touch the ground--who tosses a cannon ball, an apple and a piece of paper--who spins two dishes on the end of a stick, with one hand, while she rolls a hoop with the other--a lady who has acted before all of the crowned heads of Europe. There will never again be such great artists, a performance unsurpa.s.sed and even unequaled in the history of the Oire.”

Philidor's adjectives had given out--as had his breath--and so he paused. As he did so he heard Olga's voice beside him in a single but curiously expressive syllable.

”Well?” it asked.

His eyes met hers without other token of recognition than a slight twinkle of amus.e.m.e.nt.

”Mademoiselle wishes to enter? Ten sous, if you please.” And then with a loud voice directed over her head, ”_Entrez, Messieurs et Dames_, and see the hand to hand struggle between a man and a savage beast! A contest at once magnificent and appalling--one which you will remember to the end of your days, a spectacle to describe to your children and to your children's children--”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure which had slowly wedged through the crowd.”]

”John Markham!” Olga's voice sounded shrilly in English. ”Stop howling at once and listen to me.”

”_Oui, Mademoiselle_, ten sous, if you please. The performance is about to begin and--”

”This performance has been going on quite long enough. What on earth are you doing here in Alenon?”

”Barking,” said Markham with a grin. ”Also doing crayon portraits at two francs fifty a head,” and he pointed to the sign beside the poster of Cleofonte breaking the chains which advertised the nature of his talents in glowing terms. ”My name is Philidor, Mademoiselle,” bowing; ”itinerant portrait painter--at your service.”

”Oh, do stop that nonsense and explain--”

”There's nothing to explain. Here I am. That's all.”

”How did you get here--to Alenon?”

”Walked--it's my custom.”

”Rom Rouen?”

He nodded. ”I'm a member of the Troupe Fabiani of Strolling Acrobats,”

he laughed. ”I'm learning the gentle art of bear-baiting. Won't you come in?”

She searched his face keenly and accepted his invitation, first handing him her fifty centime piece, which he dropped without comment into his pocket. The enclosure was already filled, so he closed the entrance flap and mounted guard over it--and Olga stood beside him, her glance pa.s.sing swiftly from one object to another. Cleofonte's bout with Toma.s.so was more than usually dramatic, but her eyes roved toward the dressing tent, eyeing with an uncommon interest the Signora when she appeared.

”Your troupe is not large,” Olga remarked when the program had been explained to her.

”No, we are few, my dear Olga, but quite select. You have yet to see Luigi perform and the Child Wonder--and the _Femme Orchestre_--a remarkable person who plays five instruments at the same time.”

Olga watched the show for a while with an abstracted air.

”You surely can't mean that you enjoy this sort of thing?” she questioned at last.

He laughed. ”I do mean just that--otherwise I shouldn't be here, should I?”

”Oh, you're impossible!” she said impatiently.

”I know it,” she laughed with a shrug, ”and the worst of it is that I'm quite shameless about it.”

He was really an extraordinary person. She couldn't help wondering how it was that she could have cared for him at all, and yet she was quite sure that he had never seemed more interesting to her than at this moment. But it was quite evident that she did not believe him. The performance was soon over, the people crowded toward the entrance, Olga, alone at last, remaining. Indeed, she was making herself very much at home, and to Philidor's chagrin insisted upon examining the Signora's knives and torches, the heavy weights of Cleofonte, the chains and the larger fragments of the stone which Luigi had broken on Cleofonte's chest. It was all very interesting. Then she sat upon a bench, her glance still roving restlessly, lighting at last upon the house wagon.