Meanwhile the lions in the fourth cage roared, and the sad bear, made happy with his morning ration of mush and milk, buried his nose in the pail, muzzle and all, and forgave his mistress for changing her mÉtier.

Next to the panthers’ cage the week’s wash hung drying in the sun. Some of it was coquettish.

Ah! my friend, if you complain of the responsibility of having a family on your hands, remember it is not a patch to having a menagerie on your hands, even without the cumbersome elephant.

“To show” inside the fortifications costs dearly—six hundred francs rental for a place in any of the fÊtes foraines. The law prohibits single exhibitions which are not a part of the regular fÊtes foraines, and these take place only at stated intervals in the different quarters of the city. They are the Foire aux Pain-d’Epices, the FÊte de Neuilly, the FÊte des Invalides, the one surrounding the bronze lion of Belfort, and other smaller ones along the Boulevards Vaugirard, Pasteur, Garibaldi, Grenelle, and Rochechouart, and the FÊte of La Chapelle. The still smaller fÊtes outside of Paris do not pay well. Meanwhile the animals have to be fed, pay or no pay.

“There are those who have said hard things of me even in the old days,” said La Goulue, “but they lied. I am a good girl with a good heart (je suis une bonne fille),” she cried, looking me straight in the eye. “It was the life that was bad, not I, monsieur.”

There is great risk to life and limb in training and showing these animals; the lion Bob a while ago closed his jaws upon “M. La Goulue,” crunching half through the shoulder. Yet it is the injury to others that the Goulues fear the most.

One of the panthers tore the arm from a child during a performance in Rouen. It was an expensive accident for La Goulue.

At the time I saw this small menagerie wintering in a corner of the earth, La Goulue was waiting for an engagement in a coming fÊte foraine. As yet the letter had not arrived, and I believe the bear knew it.

“M. La Goulue” did not smile, and spoke but rarely. You felt his absolute domination and fearlessness. He took the hyena by the throat, then stroked its ears kindly. When he rolled Alice, the lioness, over on her back, he did so with gentleness and firmness; when she rebelled and struck at him viciously, he cuffed her ears and stood talking to her as to a disobedient child.

I felt that this man with the steel-gray eyes regarded the world in general in the same manner—with ease and a cool head.

The Avenue de Neuilly in June is suddenly transformed into a glittering bedlam. Shows line both sides of the broad avenue for nearly a mile.

These exhibitions are of varied character. Many of them are counterparts of those along the “Bowery” of our own Coney Island, but many spectacles may be witnessed inside the enclosures of these claptrap barracks of canvas and board that are wholly foreign to us. Their ornamental faÇades are adorned with marvels of pictorial art representing all manner of wonderful things not found in this or any other clime.

Side-showing is a science. Some fakirs have become rich with little more than a dirty red curtain to screen from view the wonders promised within, a good “barker” to heighten the desire and imagination of the gaping crowd in front, and a tame ape tied outside to attract the little ones. That there was after all nothing worth even two sous to behold behind the mysterious portal, the spectators in front knew by the sheepish smirk of those coming out, yet they paid their sous just the same and filed in to see what had fooled the other fellows!

In the FÊte de Neuilly I did not find these fake methods existing. It is a dangerous thing to fool a French crowd, and so it is the custom to parade upon an elevated platform at the entrance in plain view of the passer-by the troupe advertised to show within.

There stand the girl in tights, the clown, the juggler and the strong man, and the spectator may judge fairly for himself whether he thinks it worth while to part with his sous to know them better. For one franc he may study their talent from a kitchen chair, alluringly termed a “fauteuil d’orchestre.” A bench seat generally within a foot of it rents at half price, and a bleacher seat at five sous, with a reduction to children and the military.

There are certain hours and special days when the generous manager lowers even these prices—dinner hours when the passing throng thins out, and rainy days when the clown appears in a mackintosh and the girl in the pink cotton tights wraps a plush boa about her powdered neck and wears the clown’s galoshes, while the monkey at the end of his chain buries his head out of the drip and falls asleep.

One of the most popular shows of the fÊtes foraines is that of the female wrestlers. Many of these combatively inclined ladies cultivate a pose that would put to the blush Hercules leaning on his club. Some of them gird their loins in imitation lion skins, others wear wristlets of heavy leather “to protect them from the brutality of their adversaries,” who, the manager assures the interested crowd, are drawn from all corners. So you will see a burly looking bourgeois elbow his way through the crowd and agree openly before the spectators to wrestle Mademoiselle Blanche “La Tigresse” through three rounds, catch-as-catch-can. He tells the manager he was trained by the great Marseille himself and, giving his name and place of residence in case of accident, enters the tent with his candy-haired opponent. All the strong men in these fÊtes foraines seem to have been trained by Marseille!

The two file into the amphitheater beyond the curtain, while the manager roars outside exhorting the crowd to follow.

In the second round Mademoiselle Blanche has thrown her bourgeois fairly, while six other lady wrestlers sit on the edge of the ring and applaud. The crowd grows enthusiastic.

In the third round the bourgeois by a neck-hold slaps his adversary down on the platform, squarely on her back. Both her shoulders touch. The crowd cheers. The bourgeois has won.

The band in the corner pumps forth a mournful waltz, and another wrestler prepares for the second bout.

When the show closes, the chance bourgeois and Mademoiselle Blanche will return to their home in one of the sea of shanties beyond the barrier, and the manager will turn up his coat collar, give a fresh rub to his silk hat, deposit the contents of his tin cash-box in his wallet, and hail a passing omnibus.

The FÊte de Neuilly during the afternoon and evening is alive throughout its length and breadth with a vast throng of pleasure seekers of all classes and conditions. Along the route of attractions mammoth carrousels, gorgeous in gilt and mirrors, swing round at a giddy pace, filled with screaming, laughing women and their escorts. Another form of carrousel is the “Montagnes Russes,” with undulating circular tracks over which gilded chariots rush to the accompaniment of powerful steam calliopes.

Farther on are a row of swings. In one of these sky-scraping affairs a chic little blanchisseuse, her blond hair flying beneath a soldier’s cap jammed over her ears, is holding on tight and screaming with laughter while her escort the soldier pulls the rope with renewed effort, until they both come near bumping their heads on the upper supports.

A few steps farther on, another merry-go-round is on the point of starting. Astride of a wooden camel sits a young negro wearing a straw hat with a pink satin band, and a suit known as “nobby.” Two girls pass. They are evidently two little couturiÈres out for a holiday. One of them, a little brunette, catches sight of the coal black youth with the pink satin tie. The two girls hold a hurried conversation. Suddenly the little brunette runs up to the surprised gentleman in the nobby suit, throws her arms about his neck and kisses him.

“VoilÀ,” she says as she runs on to join her companion, bubbling with laughter over the joke.

“Je pourrai dire que j’ai embrassÉ un nÈgre!”

At night the FÊte de Neuilly is ablaze with light. Carriages crawl slowly through the crowd, some of them are smart private turnouts which have driven to the fÊte after dinner at Armononville or elsewhere.

Parading side by side with these are others containing jolly parties waving great paper chrysanthemums and sunflowers carried upon long sticks. These pretty souvenirs are sold by the thousands in the fÊte, and nearly every party of merrymakers brings them back to the boulevard cafÉs.

Among other attractions are circuses and menageries where hourly exhibitions of animals in training draw steady audiences. There is little attempt to decorate the interior of these menageries—a few kitchen chairs fronting a row of cages and standing room back of these furnish the necessary accommodation for the audience. As a rule, the animals in these small shows are well cared for and kept in unusually good condition.

The name Pezon in France is traditionally suggestive of the best animal show. Through three generations the Pezons have been animal trainers and maintained menageries throughout France. There is not one of this intrepid family who has not at some time been dragged bleeding from beneath some infuriated beast. One of the sons who still risks his life daily is minus an arm, having been mangled by a lion a few years ago.

I saw one veteran trainer in the Pezon show turn pale as he realized that an ugly lion he had forced into a corner had become unmanageable and blind with rage. Keepers ran to his help, and most of the audience rose in a panic and started to rush through the exit. The cage rocked as the lion sprang from side to side and the ground seemed to tremble beneath his snarling roar, but the man within the bars held his ground. He was a short, thick-set fellow with blond hair. Step by step he forced the lion back into its corner, and as firmly and slowly he conquered him until the crouching beast who could have killed him with a blow sprang panic-stricken out of his way. Then the little man turned to the audience, bowed with the air of a dancing-master and sprang through the safety door. Cheers of “Bravo!” rose from the audience who had remained as if hypnotized; but the man who had been so near death did not seem to notice them, for he shrugged his shoulders and smiled as if the episode were of little importance. Lighting a cigarette, he disappeared through a door in the rear.

I once knew an old French trainer and owner of a menagerie, Champeaux by name, who came to grief in a different way. He was a jovial old fellow and when he was not training lions, hyenas, panthers, or bears, spent most of his time over the flowing bowl in some nearby cafÉ, telling stories and spreading the sunshine of geniality among his old cronies. He had been in the cages so much of his life and had such a host of friends, in fact he was such a popular old fellow and so jolly and genial withal, that I believe he grew to think that the animals he trained loved him too.

At one time having installed his animal show in the fÊte foraine at the Place du Trone, he attended the wedding festivities of a friend. It happened to be a bourgeois wedding, and the bride and groom and their guests made merry with champagne and congratulations in one of those Parisian restaurants where the second floor above the cafÉ is rented to wedding parties and banquets. The festivities kept up until the hour grew late. Champeaux was the most hilariously happy of the guests. He embraced the bride and groom and toasted the happy pair in numerous bumpers, and at last proudly zigzagged his way back to the menagerie. “All his lions should hear what a good time he had had,” he said to himself. As he reeled along, he imagined that he was twenty-one and a bridegroom; then somehow he dreamed that most of his lions had grown wings and had pink fur on their paws and that all his cages had turned to solid gold.

And so he lurched on towards his pets, singing a song of cheer. He reached his menagerie before daylight. His keepers, snoring peacefully in their bunks, did not hear him as he stumbled in through a hole in the tent and proceeded to the row of cages. A lioness, wakened out of her sleep, recognized him, and pacing to the end of her cage, peered out at him. He must have presented a strange sight, for she roared twice, half waking the other animals. Then my friend did a foolish thing; he stumbled up the steps of the trained bear’s cage, apologized to the steps for tripping over them, slipped the spring latch and entered the den. Taking his hat off politely to the bear who, at his unexpected entrance, rose on her hind legs, Champeaux fell into her arms.

“Pepita,” he said, “I have had a good time, a good time, old girl,” and he slapped her enthusiastically on her scrubby neck.

Pepita squealed, embraced him in turn, as if in sympathy, and looked at him queerly with her small round eyes. Then Champeaux groaned—Pepita had broken his ribs.

In America the roof of the three-ring circus holds a network of trap apparatus upon which a dozen aerial performers exhibit at the same time. In the first ring there is a bareback act, in the second a juggling family upon an intermediate stage, and in the third ring a herd of trained elephants. Over the surrounding race-track twenty clowns play tag, setting small sections of the amphitheater into roars of laughter as they pass.

All this is typical with us of the “greatest show on earth.”

Parisians delight in the circus as much as we do, but they are content in seeing one thing at a time and enjoying it.

Here the cirques are as cozy as theaters and one small ring suffices. The Nouveau Cirque, whose faÇade on the rue St. HonorÉ resembles that of a music-hall, is the most comfortable of all the Parisian circuses, and, like the Cirque d’Hiver and the Cirque MÉdrano, is open the year round. The patronage of the last two is more bourgeois than that of the first one, for both are situated in thickly populated quarters.

The MÉdrano, on the boulevard Rochechouart in Montmartre, and the Cirque d’Hiver, on the boulevard du Temple, are patronized for the most part by the people of the rue du Temple and around la Place de la Bastille.

All Paris pours to Longchamp the day of the Grand Prix. Seen from the grandstand, the track stretches away in a velvety green ribbon. Every square foot of the remainder of the vast enclosure is packed with people. Part of this human sea, that which fills the grandstands and broad promenade, is gay in the smartest of toilettes, silk parasols, and shining top hats. The rest is made up of all sorts and conditions.

Indoor displays of horsemanship, where the incentive of betting is lacking, have not been a success in Paris—at least when conducted upon a large scale. The old Hippodrome, founded for track exhibitions, has passed out of existence. It was too big to be popular, and the new Hippo-Palace, a splendid structure forming a spacious angle with the rue Calvalotti and the rue Caulincourt, after a short life proved an absolute failure. Its exterior was vast and exceedingly attractive in color. The whole was done in a scheme of gold and turquoise blue velvet, with a huge stage for ballets at the end of the three-ringed amphitheater. The performance was excellent, and for a while it looked as if the Hippo-Palace might be a success. But the same criticism caused its downfall. There were too many things to watch at once from seats too far removed from the performers.

Parisians enjoy the intimacy of a small circus.

Between the acts the pretty stables behind the scenes are crowded with people who enjoy looking at the horses in their neatly kept stalls—indeed, many of these remain in the stables after the bell announces the continuance of the performance, in order to view at leisure the byplay of the performers before they go into the ring.

A pretty bareback rider comes tripping down the stairs from her dressing-room. Her horse is brought out for her from its stall, and, while an elderly gentleman with a ribbon in his buttonhole stands chatting with her for a moment, her groom gives a final cinch to the mare’s white kid girdle and rosins its broad back.

Applause announces the end of an act, and a trained bear, held in check by his keeper, shuffles past you.

It is mademoiselle’s turn now, and the old gentleman with the decoration lifts his opera hat as mademoiselle leaves him and runs into the ring.

From the circular promenoir behind the second tier of boxes you catch glimpses of women in chic toilets who nightly frequent the circuses.

Immortal are the names of the famous of French clowns—Boum-Boum, Auguste and Chocolat. For years they have made Paris roar with laughter, and the little French children kick their bare legs in glee.

Chocolat and Auguste, who appear together, are far more than ordinary clowns. They are past masters in the art of nonsense. Every effect is carefully planned and studied. Their performance is pantomime of the first order. To keep the amused attention of an audience for half an hour by a representation of Hamlet played with no costumes and no scenery, and for the most part executed wholly in pantomime, requires rare skill and subtle humor, and that rarest of qualities in comic men, the time to know when to stop.

There is something especially attractive in the coziness of these one-ring circuses of Paris. The buildings themselves are circular, like those built for permanent panoramas. From the ring, with its red velvet border, begin rows of orchestra seats, reaching to the balcony of pretty boxes, behind which is a circular promenade.

The stables themselves are models of well-ordered cleanliness, and each stall that contains some beauty of the ring shines in polished brass. The stall posts are bound with fresh sheaths of straw tied with gaily colored ribbons.

An attractive feature of the Nouveau Cirque is the aquatic performance which concludes the show. The big ring mattress is suspended between two giant wheels and rolled away; the floor of the ring sinks slowly, and water rushes in until a safe diving depth is attained. Calcium lights are turned upon this improvised lake, and an aquatic burlesque follows. This naturally concludes the program, for every one taking part tumbles in as often as possible and retires dripping to his dressing-room. One of these farce comedies ends in a wedding party where the bride and groom are ferried across in the little boat. The clown who acts as ferryman is invariably upset, and the wedding party have to kick out and swim for shore, on which they climb or are hauled minus most of their clothes.

The Thursday matinÉes are filled with happy French children. What a never-to-be-forgotten ecstasy it must be to Jacqueline, FranÇois and little Antoinette to be taken between the acts to the cafÉ of the Cirque MÉdrano and be served with a huge cÉrise À l’eau by the clown himself. How delightful to hear his special jokes as he pours out for them their cÉrise and nearly spills a whole trayful of cakes over their heads as he serves it!

I spent the afternoon yesterday with a famous old clown at the MÉdrano. At intervals during our chat my friend would leave me to run back into the ring and play the fool. Yet he was a grave and a sad old man. His heavily chalked face with its traditional black lines between his eyes and his painted cheeks seemed strangely incongruous as he talked seriously of his life.

Behind his mask of chalk his old eyes burned with a brave light in them still, for his life had been one of trying struggle. He spoke of the death of his only daughter, of the hardships of many touring adventures in many lands.

“I went with my family to Constantinople to start a circus there, and it took me five years to earn enough money to return, for we not only lost all we had, but were forced into debt.

“We managed to get free at last and returned to Paris. Here we worked hard, all of us, and at last we opened again a circus of our own. My son-in-law was the trapeze performer, and my boy was a clown like myself. We had with us a family of old friends, the Lorettis—you may remember them? The opening night of that show brought with it the old sensation of ruin staring us in the face. We opened the doors that evening just thirty-five thousand francs in debt. Gradually by hard work we managed to pull out of it, and,” he added, “to-day, thank God! I am free from worry and anxiety. I know that I can make but a living at the best. I get my money here; it is not much, but I get it regularly, and here I shall stay. I am sixty years old and have been a clown nearly forty years of my life.”

He excused himself for a moment and ran out into the ring, turned a flipflap, and ran tripping over things in a fruitless endeavor to assist the lady in pink tulle on her cantering white horse. A pantomime followed in which a second clown, his son, having killed him in a comic duel, doubled his father up, packed him neatly in a barrel, and wheelbarrowed him out of the ring.

“You see,” continued the father seriously as he rejoined me, having divested himself of the barrel and run the wheelbarrow out of the way of an advancing herd of elephants, “it is different with your big American shows. An artist there never gets credit for his work. With so many acts going at once it is impossible for him to be fairly seen. He can play only to a small section of the house, and, if he is doing high trap work like my son-in-law, he no sooner gets a neat trick worked up than the bell rings and down the rope he has to come.

“Well, sir, I must wash up and be getting along; we have dinner at home at six and I have a little special marketing to do for we have some old friends coming.”