IX
THE ROAD TO PARADISE
On the 3d of November Byram’s American Circus, travelling slowly overland toward the Spanish frontier, drew up for an hour’s rest at Quimperlé. I, however, as usual, prepared to ride forward to select a proper place for our night encampment, and to procure the necessary license.
The dusty procession halted in the town square, which was crowded, and as I turned in my saddle I saw Byram stand up on the red-and-gold band-wagon and toss an armful of circulars and bills into the throng.
The white bits of paper fluttered wide and disappeared in the sea of white Breton head-dresses; there was a rhythmic clatter of wooden shoes, an undulation of snowy coiffes, then a low murmur as the people slowly read the circulars aloud, their musical monotone accompanying the strident nasal voice of Byram, who stood on the tarnished band-wagon shouting his crowd around him.
“Mossoors et madams! Ecooty see voo play! J’ai l’honnoor de vous presenter le ploo magnifique cirque—” And the invariable réclame continued to the stereotyped finis; the clown bobbed up behind Byram and made his usual grimaces, and the band played “The Cork Leg.”
The Bretons looked on in solemn astonishment: my comrade, Speed, languidly stood up on the elephant 160 and informed the people that our circus was travelling to Lorient to fill a pressing engagement, and if we disappointed the good people of Lorient a riot would doubtless result, therefore it was not possible to give any performance before we reached Lorient—and the admission was only ten sous.
Our clown then picked up the tatters of his threadbare comic speech. Speed, munching a stale sandwich, came strolling over to where I stood sponging out my horse’s mouth with cool water.
“We’ll ride into Paradise in full regalia, I suppose,” he observed, munching away reflectively; “it’s the cheapest réclame.”