He was thin, dressed like a dandy, with a pretty varnished mask on his face.  It had a curly blond mustache and a wavy wig.  He looked like a wax figure from the Musee Grevin, like a strange and fantastic caricature of the charming young man of fashion plates, and he danced with visible effort, clumsily, with a comical impetuosity.  He appeared rusty beside the others when he tried to imitate their gambols:  he seemed overcome by rheumatism, as heavy as a great Dane playing with greyhounds.  Mocking bravos encouraged him.  And he, carried away with enthusiasm, jigged about with such frenzy that suddenly, carried away by a wild spurt, he pitched head foremost into the living wall formed by the audience, which opened up before him to allow him to pass, then closed around the inanimate body of the dancer, stretched out on his face.

Some men picked him up and carried him away, calling for a doctor.  A gentleman stepped forward, young and elegant, in well-fitting evening clothes, with large pearl studs.  “I am a professor of the Faculty of Medicine,” he said in a modest voice.  He was allowed to pass, and he entered a small room full of little cardboard boxes, where the still lifeless dancer had been stretched cut on some chairs.  The doctor at first wished to take off the mask, and he noticed that it was attached in a complicated manner, with a perfect network of small metal wires which cleverly bound it to his wig and covered the whole head.  Even the neck was imprisoned in a false skin which continued the chin and was painted the color of flesh, being attached to the collar of the shirt.

All this had to be cut with strong scissors.  When the physician had slit open this surprising arrangement, from the shoulder to the temple, he opened this armor and found the face of an old man, worn out, thin and wrinkled.  The surprise among those who had brought in this seemingly young dancer was so great that no one laughed, no one said a word.

All were watching this sad face as he lay on the straw chairs, his eyes closed, his face covered with white hair, some long, falling from the forehead over the face, others short, growing around the face and the chin, and beside this poor head, that pretty little, neat varnished, smiling mask.

The man regained consciousness after being inanimate for a long time, but he still seemed to be so weak and sick that the physician feared some dangerous complication.  He asked:  “Where do you live?”

The old dancer seemed to be making an effort to remember, and then he mentioned the name of the street, which no one knew.  He was asked for more definite information about the neighborhood.  He answered with a great slowness, indecision and difficulty, which revealed his upset state of mind.  The physician continued: 

“I will take you home myself.”

Curiosity had overcome him to find out who this strange dancer, this phenomenal jumper might be.  Soon the two rolled away in a cab to the other side of Montmartre.