Just in time we take our seats, and lo! before us rolls a huge car.
It is "the theatre"—an open car of puppets—but the puppets are men; all attached to cords held in the hand of the giant, who sits in imposing state above them on the top of the car which is on a level with the third story balconies.
"PROMENADE DU COURS," IN CARNIVAL TIME.
The giant lifts his hand and the puppets whirl and jump. But alas! his head is too high. His hat is swept off by the hanging festoons, and the giant must ride bare-headed, in danger of sunstroke.
Next behind the car moves in military order a regiment of mounted grasshoppers. Their sleek, shining bodies of green satin, their gauzy wings and antennæ, snub noses and big eyes, are all absolutely perfect to the eye; but—they are of the size of men.
You lower your mask to see more clearly, you are lost in wonder at the perfect illusion, your mouth is wide open with "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" when pop! pop! slings a shower of confetti, and the little hailstones seem to cut off your ears and rush sifting down your neck.
"PROMENADE DU COURS" IN CARNIVAL TIME.
For, while you were watching the grasshoppers, a low open carriage, concealed under a pink and white cover, has stopped under our windows. Four merry masqueraders, cloaked and hooded in hue to match, have a bushel of confetti between them, and are piled with nosegays. We slink behind our masks, we pull the handles of our confetti scoops—then the battle begins and waxes fierce.