“Champagne? Pouah! That is a wine for foreigners!” he explained. “Give me good old red wine—and let me drink till my thirst is quenched!”
On the table—or rather on the jumping-board of the circus, which stood on props with its chalk-powder giving the illusion of a white cloth—there was a mass of dishes and plates and empty bottles. It had been spread in the very middle of the ring—in the good odor of sawdust. Around the table, seated on the chairs of equilibrists, or on the stools of hand-balancers, were the circus artistes and a few invited guests. They had laughed a great deal during the banquet, before the time came for the songs and toasts.
“We all look as if we had the plague!” Suzanne said, by way of appetizer, pointing to the color of the faces under the green reflected light of the tent. Thereupon Poufaille grew livid, in his constant terror of the most imaginary ailments—stoppage of the blood, wind, stiff neck, plague, and cholera.
“Shut off the draughts of air!” he cried, “we’ll all get our death!”
He all but fainted with fear as he saw, in front of him, his plate rising up in the air without his touching it.
“My plate! my plate is going away!” he stammered, in terror.
The Banquet in the Ring of the Circus
“Oh! what is the matter?” Suzanne cried. “I can’t understand it—perhaps a snake has got loose from the menagerie next door!”