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“Sur ce terrain va—aa—gue.”

Farther away—away, this time, to one of the environs of Paris, and down there, by the river-side, the annual fête. Not an empty corner, not a vacant space; nothing but booths, “side-shows,” shooting-galleries, roundabouts, caravans—“all the fun of the fair.” Confusion, exhilaration, and a hundred different, frenzied sounds. All this babel lasts a week; but at the end of the week, departure and gloom. Gone the caravans and their picturesque inmates. Gone the “distractions.” There stood the shooting-gallery, with its targets, grotesque dummies and strings of clay pipes. One fired twice for a penny. If successful, one was rewarded with paper flowers, or a shocking cigar, or (in exceptional cases) a strident alarm clock; if a bad marksman, one was consoled with a slice of hard, gritty ginger-bread. Farther on revolved the roundabout. One rode a rickety steed, with only one stirrup. One turned to the accompaniment of a husky, exhausted old organ. What appalling liberties it took with the Valse Bleue! Next, one visited the palmist, inspected a seedy lion, stared at optical illusions, shook hands with a dwarf, bought sticks of nougat, rode again on the round about, returned to——