“Do you know this clown?” asked an enormous Turk of a melancholy Punch.
“No, but he can imitate a trumpet splendidly.”
“Oh, very well indeed! But what is he driving at?”
The clown was endeavoring to attract the attention of Mme. Fauvel, who, since Raoul and Madeleine had left her, sat by herself in a mournful revery.
He succeeded in his object.
The showman’s shrill voice brought the banker’s wife back to a sense of reality; she started, and looked quickly about her, as if suddenly awakened from a troubled dream.
“Now, ladies, we are in China. The first picture on my canvas, here, in the left corner”—here he touched the top daub—“represents the celebrated Mandarin Li-Fo, in the bosom of his family. This pretty woman leaning over him is his wife; and these children playing on the carpet are the bonds of love between this happy pair. Do you not inhale the odor of sanctity and happiness emanating from this speaking picture, gentlemen?
“Mme. Li-Fo is the most virtuous of women, adoring her husband and idolizing her children. Being virtuous she is happy; for the wise Confucius says, ‘The ways of virtue are more pleasant than the ways of vice.’”
Mme. Fauvel had left her seat, and approached nearer to the clown.
“Do you see anything on the banner like what he is describing?” asked the melancholy Punch of his neighbor.