and a stalwart gymnast in buff fleshings, bore the drooping form of the favorite in their arms, and, followed by the bystanders, who offered ineffectual assistance, carried the wounded man across the ring and through the draped arch under the music gallery.  Under any other circumstances the group would have excited a laugh, for the audience was in that condition of almost hysterical excitement when only the least effort of a clown is necessary to cause a wave of laughter.  But the moment the wounded man was lifted from the ground, the whole strong light from the brilliant chandelier struck full on his right leg dangling from the knee, with the foot hanging limp and turned inward.  A deep murmur of sympathy swelled and rolled around the crowded amphitheatre.

I left the circus, and hundreds of others did the same.  A dozen of us called at the box-office to ask about the victim of the accident.  He was advertised as “The Great Polish Champion Bareback Rider and Aerial Gymnast.”  We found that he was really a native of the East, whether Pole or Russian the ticket-seller did not know.  His real name was Nagy, and he had been engaged only recently, having returned a few months before from a professional tour in North America.  He was supposed to have money, for he commanded a good salary, and was sober and faithful.  The accident, it was said, would probably disable him for a few weeks only, and then he would resume his engagement.

The next day an account of the accident was in the newspapers, and twenty-four hours later all Paris had forgotten about it.  For some reason or other I frequently thought of the injured man, and had an occasional impulse to go and inquire after him; but I never went.  It seemed to me that I had seen his face before, when or where I tried in vain to recall.  It was not an impressive face, but I could call it up at any moment as distinct to my mind’s eye as a photograph to my physical vision.  Whenever I thought of him, a dim, very dim memory would flit through my mind, which I could never seize and fix.

Two months later I was walking up the Rue Richelieu, when some one, close beside me and a little behind, asked me in Hungarian if I was a Magyar.  I turned quickly to answer no, surprised at being thus addressed, and beheld the disabled circus-rider.  It flashed upon me, the moment I saw his face, that I had seen him in Turin three years before.  My surprise at the sudden identification of the gymnast was construed by him into vexation at being spoken to by a stranger.  He began to apologize for stopping me, and was moving away, when I asked him about the accident, remarking that I was present on the evening of his misfortune.  My next question, put in order to detain him, was: 

“Why did you ask if I was a Hungarian?”

“Because you wear a Hungarian hat,” was the reply.

This was true.  I happened to have on a little round, soft felt hat, which I had purchased in Buda Pesth.