und.

'For Michel,' said Sidonia, dropping a five-franc piece into the box.

'A piece of a hundred sous!' said Michel.

'And a piece of a hundred sous for yourself and each of your brothers
and sisters, Adelaide,' said Sidonia, giving her a purse.

Michel gave a shout, but Adelaide blushed very much, kissed his hand,
and skipped away. When she had got behind the curtain, she jumped on her
father's neck, and burst into tears. Madame Baroni, not knowing what had
occurred, and observing that Sidonia could command from his position a
view of what was going on in their sanctuary, pulled the curtain, and
deprived Sidonia of a scene which interested him.

About ten minutes after this, Baroni again appeared in his rough
great-coat, and with his violin. He gave a scrape or two, and the
audience became orderly. He played an air, and then turning to Sidonia,
looking at him with great scrutiny, he said, 'Sir, you are a prince.'

'On the contrary,' said Sidonia, 'I am nothing; I am only an artist like
yourself.'

'Ah!' said Baroni, 'an artist like myself! I thought so. You have
taste. And what is your line? Some great theatre, I suppose, where
even if one is ruined, one at least has the command of capital. 'Tis a
position. I have none. But I have no rebels in my company, no traitors.
With one mind and heart we get on, and yet sometimes----' and here a
signal near him reminded him that he must be playing another air, and in
a moment the curtain separated in the middle, and exhibited a circular
stage on which there were various statues representing the sacred story.

There were none of the usual means and materials of illusion at hand;
neither space, nor distance, nor cunning lights; it was a confined
tavern room with some glaring tapers, and Sidonia himself was almost
within arm's reach of the performers. Yet a representation more
complete, more finely conceived, and more perfectly executed, he had
never witnessed. It was impossible to credit that these marble forms,
impressed with ideal grace, so still, so sad, so sacred, could be the
little tumblers, who, but half-an-hour before, were disporting on the
coarse boards at his side.

The father always described, before the curtain was withdrawn, with a
sort of savage terseness, the subject of the impending scene. The groups
did not continue long; a pause of half a minute, and the circular stage
revolved, and the curtain again closed. This rapidity of representation
was necess