Clown, always very curious, was present at all the rehearsals and enjoyed them thoroughly—so much, indeed, that he suddenly joined in and showed how well he could skip. Then he wanted to jump over and through everything. At last he got so excited that Reine made him take a nice hot sugar-drink with a little orange flower in it to calm him.
After this, Clown was considered one of the troupe.
Always on the watch, our doggie learned at breakfast that three days hence they were to go to Fontainebleau, where they were to give two performances, and after that they were to set off for Paris, so as to arrive in time for the opening of the big festival at Neuilly.
This made him so happy that for the moment he quite forgot to eat. Then, hope in his soul and joy in his heart, he made up his mind to do his very best at the next performance. He wanted to make all the people admire him, to do something that would repay Reine and her father for their kindness. Perhaps, too, he hoped that by acting in this way he might get talked about and get his name into the papers. Man is vain and even a dog has his pride. His fame might perhaps reach Bertha, his dear, tender, much-regretted mistress. All this made him very serious when at last the time for the performance arrived.
Beneath an immense tent, brilliantly lighted, decorated with garlands of foliage and flowers, the orchestra struck up a joyous march.
Immediately the doors were flung open, and to the sound of the music a great crowd poured into the huge tent and took seats.
For about an hour and a half the menagerie held the floor. Then the animals were put back into their cages. The wild beasts were obedient and rebellious in turn; whips sounded continuously. The noise of squibs, firecrackers, and growls almost drowned the orchestra.