XIV 
  
THE OLD MOUNTEBANK 
  
  
EVERYWHERE spread and moved and frol-
icked the holiday folk. It was one of those fes-
tivals on which, since long, mountebanks, trick 
performers, menagerie proprietors, and ped-
lars count to make up for the slack seasons of 
the year. 
On such days it seems to me that the peo-
ple forgets everything, both sorrow and toil; it 
becomes as children are; for the children it is a 
holiday, for the frown-ups it is an armistice 
concluded with the maleficent powers of life, a 
respite in the universal strife and struggle. 
The man of the world himself, and the man 
engaged in mental labour, escape with diffi-
culty from the influence of this popular jubilee. 
They absorb, without wishing it, their part of 
this happy-go-lucky atmosphere. For myself, 
like a true Parisian, I never miss passing in re-
view all the booths which flaunt upon these 
solemn occasions. 
They were in truth trying to outdo each 
other in hubbub; they chattered, bellowed,