The frequenters of the theatres and circuses of the present day would consider this establishment of Gudel's very modest, with its single gallery, a little red serge, and its shabby velvet curtain. There was an orchestra, but what an orchestra! All the actors when not occupied on the stage assisted in it. Gudel at intervals played the trombone. The gallery was crowded; so crowded that, from time to time, there were ominous crackings, but the people in their excitement did not notice this.

But a great silence fell on the spectators, when IrÈne de Salves entered. Erect and haughty, she moved through the crowd, with the slightest possible inclination of the head in apology for disturbing them.

A word here in regard to this young lady. She was looked upon as a very eccentric person. Her father had followed Bonaparte's fortunes, and had fallen in Russia, leaving his widow sole guardian of this girl, then only four years of age.

The Countess, broken-hearted at her loss, shut herself up in the chÂteau, and devoted herself to her daughter. IrÈne seemed to have inherited her father's adventurous spirit, and her mother encouraged rather than restrained it, so great was her joy in the resemblance. She had his exuberant vitality, his contempt for danger, and his pride of race. IrÈne, possessing an enormous fortune and accustomed to the indulgence of every caprice, soon began to look upon herself as of superior clay to these peasants who doffed their hats to her as she passed. She believed in the great power of money, and the Countess encouraged this belief. But illness came, and the Countess was confined to her sofa by paralysis. She lived now only for her daughter, and it was the one bright spot in her day when IrÈne rushed in, bringing with her fresh air and the sweet scents of the woods.

The child had become a woman, a woman full of contradictions. She was by turns charitable or pitiless, benevolent or disdainful. Sometimes, gay as a child, she rode all over the country—other days she hid herself in the woods or climbed to some inaccessible height, and there, with ardent eyes, indifferent to the wind that tossed her dark hair, she dreamed those dreams in which girls delight. She had moods of motiveless irritation, and of unreasonable indulgence. One day a village boy threw a stone at her horse. She pursued him with uplifted whip. Suddenly he turned, and folding his arms, defied her. She laughed aloud, and tossed him her purse.

Another time she was told that a fire had destroyed a village. She hardly seemed to hear. It was winter. In the middle of the night she arose and saddled her horse with her own hands, and rode off to the sufferers, working over them for hours.

She was not liked—none could tell why. Suddenly she learned, after a visit made by the Notary to her sick mother, that she was to marry the Vicomte Talizac. She cared nothing about it one way or the other. If her mother's heart was set upon it she was perfectly willing. The only thing she disliked in the plan was that she must leave her beautiful mountains. She had never been attracted by Paris, the streets and the people frightened her, but she was consoled by the thought that it would be a new world to conquer. On her return to the chÂteau, the daring words uttered by Fanfar dwelt in her memory: "Make yourself beloved." She had entered the booth where the exhibition had taken place, in a moment of idle curiosity, and was surprised at the impression made on her by the place and the people. She was greatly irritated withal. This mountebank, this rope-dancer, had taken a great deal upon himself, certainly. Why had she not answered him as he deserved? What did he mean—"Make yourself beloved"—as if she were not already beloved! She remembered the eyes which the peasants riveted on her. Could it be that they did not love her? And now she was seated on a wooden bench, Madame Ursula, who had at last arrived, on one side, and on the other a pretty but dirty child, who was playing with the fringe of her dress.

Meanwhile the entertainment was going on. Gudel gave more than he promised in his handbill. Before the curtain went up, he called together the members of his troupe, and encouraged them to do their best. La Roulante went up to him, and to his great amazement said a few conciliatory words. As Gudel was by no means ill-natured, he shook hands with her. The giantess turned her face toward Robeccal and winked at him.

Poor Gudel was very happy in this reconciliation. After all, things would go smoothly if he once got rid of Robeccal. Then Caillette kissed him, in her lace and spangles. Light as a bird, she skipped up to him and whispered in his ear:

"Am I not lovely to-night, papa?"

"Adorable!" he answered. He did not know that his darling was comparing herself with IrÈne.

Fanfar had his hands full, and seemed so little interested in the audience that Caillette was enchanted, for in her heart lurked a fear that some one would love her Fanfar. But after all it did not matter, for he cared little for all the beauties in the world. He handed La Roulante the stones which were to form her apparent nutriment. He whispered a new witticism to Bobichel, and gave Robeccal some advice as to the manner in which he should hold his sword. Then he took a position where he could see without being seen.

"Now, Fanfar," said Iron Jaws, "it is your turn! Look out for Caillette!"

The girl was to execute a new step on the tight-rope, and when she appeared, led forward by Fanfar, and made the three deep "reverences," there was a hum of admiration. She was charming—her delicacy was fairy-like. She lightly placed her foot on Fanfar's hand and sprang upon the rope. Standing there, she looked at IrÈne, who was leaning back with an air of indifference.

Fanfar now took up a violin, and raising the instrument to his shoulder, he began. He played at first very slowly. Caillette, with her arms folded—she had long before renounced the balancing pole—advanced up the rope. She knelt, and remained absolutely motionless. Then there came a peremptory summons from the violin. She arose and extended her arms above her head, and began to dance. Fanfar was an artist, his playing was wonderful. The music became faster and faster, and Caillette's little feet seemed hardly to touch the rope, they twinkled like stars, while Fanfar's bow looked only like a silver thread. He dropped the violin, and Caillette leaped into his arms. As she touched the ground, she threw at IrÈne a glance of laughing triumph.

Then came Robeccal's turn. He was a horrible object when he swallowed the swords. It was not admiration, it was horror, that he inspired. He seemed to enjoy this, and had imitated drops of blood on the sabres that he put down his throat. A few delicate persons shouted "Enough!" and Gudel appeared, not as Gudel, be it understood, but as Iron Jaws, the athlete. His enormous shoulders, his bull neck, contrasted with Fanfar's delicate form. Gudel tossed heavy weights and bent iron bars, and did all sorts of wonderful things. No one noticed the agility with which Fanfar, in his subordinate rÔle, passed these weights to his employer. And now, the principal feat was to be performed. Fanfar rolled a barrel upon the stage, on which already stood a curious apparatus of bars and chains. Over this was a platform. The barrel was placed under this platform, and filled with stones. A rim was fitted to this barrel, and it was hoisted a little distance from the ground by a chain. It was this enormous weight that Gudel was to lift with his teeth.

Iron Jaws placed himself on this platform.

Fanfar blew a blast from his trumpet, and Iron Jaws grasped the chain in his teeth. The barrel moved up and up. The crowd was absolutely silent, this excess of strength inspired them with terror. Suddenly, a strange sound was heard.

What was it? No one knew. No one had time to see. Gudel lay insensible on the ground. And Fanfar had caught this barrel in his iron arms. Had it absolutely fallen, for the chain had broken, nothing could have saved Gudel. As it was, the shock deprived him of consciousness. Fanfar himself could hardly stand.

Caillette and Bobichel ran to Gudel. La Roulante knelt at his side, and uttered shriek after shriek. Robeccal did not appear.

The peasants gathered around the injured man. They thought him dead.

Fanfar drew Caillette away, and then leaned over his friend.

La Roulante pushed him aside.

"Don't interfere," she said, "he is my husband."

Fanfar looked her in the face, and continued his examination. He opened Gudel's vest and shirt, and laid his hand on his heart. There was a moment of silence.

"He is living," said Fanfar.

Caillette uttered a little cry, and would have fallen had not a hand caught her. She turned, and saw it was IrÈne.

"Will you give these salts to Monsieur Fanfar?" said IrÈne.

"Ah! thanks!" cried Fanfar, without waiting for Caillette to give it to him, and took it, as he spoke, from the young lady's hand.

"Pshaw! I have something better than that," said Bobichel, and dashing to the inn he returned with a bottle of brandy.

"Two drops of this," he said, "will do more than all the salts in the world."

Fanfar administered a few drops to Gudel, who presently uttered a long sigh.

"Living!" cried Fanfar.

"Heaven be praised!" shouted Bobichel. Then, turning swiftly toward La Roulante, he added,

"Made a mistake, eh?"

The giantess started.

"Ah! he is better," said a treacherous voice. It was Robeccal who spoke. He feared lest his absence would look badly, and he had come back.

"A physician is wanted," exclaimed Fanfar, turning to Schwann, who was weeping like a child.

"There is none in the village, none nearer than Vagney, a league away."

"Then I will go for him."

"But the inundation. Fanfar, you can't do it."

"I must try it, at all events."

"Monsieur Fanfar," said IrÈne, "I beg you to take my horse. She is a splendid animal, and goes like the wind!"

Madame Ursula raised her hands to heaven. "A splendid animal indeed!" she thought, "it cost two thousand francs."

Caillette wrung her hands in despair.

"I accept your kindness," answered Fanfar, simply. "You are very good, Mademoiselle, and I thank you."

"I remembered your words of advice," she replied.

Fanfar looked at her a moment. Then, passing his hand over his brow, he seemed to try to shake himself together.

"Let him be carried to the inn, and the doctor shall see him as quickly as possible," he said.

The peasants slowly raised the injured man, and as they crossed the Square, they beheld a singular scene. Bobichel had Robeccal by the throat, and pressed his knees on his adversary's chest.

"Ah! Bobichel," cried Schwann, "is this the time to fight?"

Bobichel rose, and seemed to hesitate, then he flung the scoundrel from him, with contempt and loathing.

Fanfar leaped upon IrÈne's horse, and dashed off in the direction of Vagney.

"My father, and he," murmured Caillette, "all that I love and have in the world."

And with her handkerchief to her eyes, she followed the sad procession.