head-top was to be the success of the idea.  It was plain that I had no baldness, my hair being very thick and I but twenty-four years of age, when it was explained that my hair could be shaved.  They asked me to accept, alas! not a part in the Revue, but a specialty as a sandwich-man.  Knowing the English tongue as I do, I may afford the venturesomeness to play upon it a little:  I asked for bread, and they offered me not a role, but a sandwich!

It must be undoubted that I possessed not the disposition to make any fun with my accomplishments during those days that I spent under the awning of the Cafe’ de la Paix.  I had consented to be the advertisement in greatest desperation, and not considering what the reality would be.  Having consented, honour compelled that I fulfil to the ending.  Also, the costume and outfittings I wore were part of my emolument.  They had been constructed for me by the finest tailor; and though I had impulses, often, to leap up and fight through the noisy ones about me and run far to the open country, the very garments I wore were fetters binding me to remain and suffer.  It seemed to me that the hours were spent not in the centre of a ring of human persons, but of un-well-made pantaloons and ugly skirts.  Yet all of these pantaloons and skirts had such scrutinous eyes and expressions of mirth to laugh like demons at my conscious, burning, painted head; eyes which spread out, astonished at the sight of me, and peered and winked and grinned from the big wrinkles above the gaiters of Zouaves, from the red breeches of the gendarmes, the knickerbockers of the cyclists, the white ducks of sergents de ville, and the knees of the boulevardiers, bagged with sitting cross-legged at the little tables.  I could not escape these eyes;—­how scornfully they twinkled at me from the spurred and glittering officers’ boots!  How with amaze from the American and English trousers, both turned up and creased like folded paper, both with some dislike for each other but for all other trousers more.

It was only at such times when the mortifications to appear so greatly embarrassed became stronger than the embarrassment itself that I could by will power force my head to a straight construction and look out upon my spectators firmly.  On the second day of my ordeal, so facing the laughers, I found myself facing straight into the monocle of my half-brother and ill-wisher, Prince Caravacioli.

At this, my agitation was sudden and very great, for there was no one I wished to prevent perceiving my condition more than that old Antonio Caravacioli!  I had not known that he was in Paris, but I could have no doubt it was himself:  the monocle, the handsome nose, the toupee’, the yellow skin, the dyed-black moustache, the splendid height—­it was indeed Caravacioli!  He was costumed for the automobile, and threw but one glance at me as he crossed the pavement to his car, which was in waiting.  There was no change, not of the faintest, in that frosted tragic mask of a countenance, and I was glad to think that he had not recognized me.