The large theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin was crowded by an impatient multitude.  All Paris had hurried with eager and burning curiosity to Morok’s exhibition.  It is quite unnecessary to say that the lion-tamer had completely abandoned his small taste in religious baubles, which he had so successfully carried on at the White Falcon Inn at Leipsic.  There were, moreover, numerous tokens by which the surprising effects of Morok’s sudden conversion had been blazoned in the most extraordinary pictures:  the antiquated baubles in which he had formerly dealt would have found no sale in Paris.  Morok had nearly finished dressing himself, in one of the actor’s rooms, which had been lent to him.  Over a coat of mail, with cuishes and brassarts, he wore an ample pair of red trousers, fastened round his ankles by broad rings of gilt brass.  His long caftan of black cloth, embroidered with scarlet and gold, was bound round his waist and wrist by other large rings of gilt metal.  This sombre costume imparted to him an aspect still more ferocious.  His thick and red-haired beard fell in large quantities down to his chest, and a long piece of white muslin was folded round his red head.  A devout missionary in Germany and an actor in Paris, Morok knew as well as his employers, the Jesuits, how to accommodate himself to circumstances.

Seated in one corner of the room, and contemplating with a sort of stupid admiration, was Jacques Rennepont, better known as “Sleepinbuff” (from the likelihood that he would end his days in rags, or his present antipathy to great care in dress).  Since the day Hardy’s factory had been destroyed by fire, Jacques had not quitted Morok, passing the nights in excesses, which had no baneful effects on the iron constitution of the lion-tamer.  On the other’s features, on the contrary, a great alteration was perceptible; his hollow cheeks, marble pallor, his eyes, by turns dull and heavy, or gleaming with lurid fire, betrayed the ravages of debauchery, his parched lips were almost constantly curled by a bitter and sardonic smile.  His spirit, once gay and sanguine, still struggled against the besotting influence of habitual intoxication.  Unfitted for labor, no longer able to forego gross pleasures, Jacques sought to drown in wine a few virtuous impulses which he still possessed, and had sunk so low as to accept without shame the large dole of sensual gratification proffered him by Morok, who paid all the expenses of their orgies, but never gave him money, in order that he might be completely dependent on him.  After gazing at Morok for some time in amazement, Jacques said to him, in a familiar tone:  “Well, yours is a famous trade; you may boast that, at this moment, there are not two men like you in the whole world That’s flattering.  It’s a pity you don’t stick to this fine trade.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, how is the conspiracy going on, in whose honor you make me keep it up all day and all night?”