leine."

XI

The Rue St. Lazare was adorned by the palatial residences of the
Jandidier brothers, two celebrated financiers, who, if deprived of the
prestige of immense wealth, would still be looked up to as remarkable
men. Why cannot the same be said of all men?

These two mansions, which were thought marvels at the time they were
built, were entirely distinct from each other, but so planned that they
could be turned into one immense house when so desired.

When MM. Jandidier gave parties, they always had the movable partitions
taken away, and thus obtained the most superb salon in Paris.

Princely magnificence, lavish hospitality, and an elegant, graceful
manner of receiving their guests, made these entertainments eagerly
sought after by the fashionable circles of the capital.

On Saturday, the Rue St. Lazare was blocked up by a file of carriages,
whose fair occupants were impatiently awaiting their turn to drive up
to the door, through which they could catch the tantalizing strains of a
waltz.

It was a fancy ball; and nearly all of the costumes were superb, though
some were more original than elegant.

Among the latter was a clown. Everything was in perfect keeping: the
insolent eye, coarse lips, high cheek-bones, and a beard so red that it
seemed to emit flames in the reflection of the dazzling lights.

He wore top-boots, a dilapidated hat on the back of his head, and a
shirt-ruffle trimmed with torn lace.

He carried in his left hand a canvas banner, upon which were painted
six or eight pictures, coarsely designed like those found in strolling
fairs. In his right he waved a little switch, with which he would every
now and then strike his banner, like a quack retailing his wares.

Quite a crowd surrounded this clown, hoping to hear some witty speeches
and puns; but he kept near the door, and remained silent.

About half-past ten he quitted his post.

M. and Mme. Fauvel, followed by their niece Madeleine, had just entered.

A compact group immediately formed near the door.

During the last ten days, the affair of the Rue de Provence had been the
universal topic of conversation; and friends and enemies were alike
glad to seize this opportunity of approaching the banker, some to tender
their sympathy, and others to offer equivocal condolence, which of all
things is the most exasperating and insulting.

Belonging to the battalion of grave, elderly men, M. Fauvel had not
assumed a fancy costume,