(Was there another, then, in the same plight as myself?)
“Messieurs! he asked the way of me, as any stranger might!”
“Malepeste! if thou tell’st us so! But thou hast dared to personate a God!”
“Messieurs, he lent his countenance to me, as ever to the unfortunate.”
The answer raised a roar of approbation.
“Comme il est fin! take thy goose-skin! and yet we must tax thee somehow.”
“Let us destroy this show that he has profaned!”
My heart seemed to shrink into itself. I suffered—I suffered; but fortunately for a few moments only.
With the words on his lips, the fellow that had spoken slashed with his sabre, over the kneeling showman’s head, amongst the staring effigies. The whistle of his weapon made me blink. What did it matter?—the end must come now.
It was not as I foresaw. The waxen head spun into the air—the figure toppled against that standing next to it—that against its neighbour—its neighbour against me. I saw what was my cue, and went down in my turn, stiffly, with a dusty flop, twisting to my side as I fell, and hoping that he whom I was bowling over in due order was rich in padding. Nevertheless I was horribly bruised.