“Mme. Li-Fo is the most virtuous of women, adoring her husband and idolizing her children.  Being virtuous she is happy; for the wise Confucius says, ’The ways of virtue are more pleasant than the ways of vice.’”

Mme. Fauvel had left her seat, and approached nearer to the clown.

“Do you see anything on the banner like what he is describing?” asked the melancholy Punch of his neighbor.

“No, not a thing.  Do you?”

The fact is, that the daubs of paint on the canvas represented one thing as well as another, and the clown could call them whatever he pleased.

“Picture No. 2!” he cried, after a flourish of music.  “This old lady, seated before a mirror tearing out her hair—­especially the gray ones—­you have seen before; do you recognize her?  No, you do not.  She is the fair mandarine of the first picture.  I see the tears in your eyes, ladies and gentlemen.  Ah! you have cause to weep; for she is no longer virtuous, and her happiness has departed with her virtue.  Alas, it is a sad tale!  One fatal day she met, on the streets of Pekin, a young ruffian, fiendish, but beautiful as an angel, and she loved him—­the unfortunate woman loved him!”

The last words were uttered in the most tragic tone as he raised his clasped hands to heaven.

During this tirade he had whirled around, so that he found himself facing the banker’s wife, whose countenance he closely watched while he was speaking.

“You are surprised, gentlemen,” he continued; “I am not.  The great Bilboquet has proved to us that the heart never grows old, and that the most vigorous wall-flowers flourish on old ruins.  This unhappy woman is nearly fifty years old—­fifty years old, and in love with a youth!  Hence this heart-rending scene which should serve as a warning to us all.”

“Really!” grumbled a cook dressed in white satin, who had passed the evening in carrying around bills of fare, which no one read, “I thought he was going to amuse us.”

“But,” continued the clown, “you must go inside of the booth to witness the effects of the mandarine’s folly.  At times a ray of reason penetrates her diseased brain, and then the sight of her anguish would soften a heart of stone.  Enter, and for the small sum of ten sous you shall hear sobs such as the Odeon never echoed in its halcyon days.  The unhappy woman has waked up to the absurdity and inanity of her blind passion; she confesses to herself that she is madly pursuing a phantom.  She knows but too well that he, in the vigor and beauty of youth, cannot love a faded old woman like herself, who vainly makes pitiable efforts to retain the last remains of her once entrancing beauty.  She feels that the sweet words he once whispered in her charmed ear were deceitful falsehoods.  She knows that the day is near when she will be left alone, with nothing save his mantle in her hand.”

As the clown addressed this voluble description to the crowd before him, he narrowly watched the countenance of the banker’s wife.