The clown flung out his arms. "They are saved, at all events!" he shouted, as he disappeared, falling into the abyss at his feet.
Fanfar and Gudel were far away. Poor Bobichel!
CHAPTER XXIII.
FRANCE—1824.
The 29th of February, 1824, was a Sunday, and a fête day. At that time the Carnival was in full blast, and the streets were crowded with curious spectators. A carriage drew up before a fashionable restaurant in the Palais Royal. The carriage was driven by a coachman wearing a powdered wig, and the horses were magnificent. Three young men with cigars in their mouths descended from the carriage, and took the path that led to the garden.
They were wrapped in Venetian cloaks and each wore on his shoulder knots of ribbon, different in hue, and each concealed his face under a white satin mask, to which mask the police made no objection, as it was a sign of high birth and nobility.
These young men laughed when they found they were to pass through a double row of spectators, to whose jokes they replied in kind.
Lights were beginning to twinkle among the trees when they established themselves at a table in the café.