A torrent of humanity surged up the steps, pushing, shoving, shouting;
then, suddenly released, poured tumultuously over the seats of the
auditorium. Then the big drum redoubled its efforts, the fife blew its
shrillest, the ophicleide lost all control of its keys, tom-toms and
hand-bells, frantically beaten, added their quota to the din, the
kettledrums made a terrific rub-a-dub, and the whole force of the
company, a mad whirl of startling colours and flashing spangles, danced
a fandango on the platform.
“Walk up, gentlemen, walk up!” the master-showman kept yelling; “here
you shall see what you _shall_ see—marvels and miracles you’ve never
seen the like of before! Look at me! I am the world-famous Brinzipoff,
director-in-chief to the Royal Theatre of St. Petersburg and to all the
crowned heads of Europe! Hi! ho! hup! _only_ twenty centimes the back
seats! Halloa! ha! hurrah! here you are, here you are, ladies and
gentlemen, _this_ way for the front seats!”
A pause of comparative calm succeeded this grand chorus of ear-splitting
noises.
The close-packed audience was waiting, stamping with impatience, for the
curtain to rise. Then Jack-pudding came on, pulled his funny faces, and
let off his jokes amidst a dropping fire of jeers and bravos, and
presently made way for Esmeralda, the performing goat, “the unique, the
incomparable Esmeralda, the very same identical animal described by the
immortal _Alexandre_ Hugo!” The musicians struck up an appropriate air,
mostly made up of the vigorous thumping of drumsticks on drumheads.