BEHIND THE SCENES.
The large theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin was crowded by an impatient multitude.All Paris had hurried with eager and burning curiosity to Morok's exhibition.It is quite unnecessary to say that the lion-tamer had completely abandoned his small taste in religious baubles, which he had so successfully carried on at the White Falcon Inn at Leipsic.There were, moreover, numerous tokens by which the surprising effects of Morok's sudden conversion had been blazoned in the most extraordinary pictures: the antiquated baubles in which he had formerly dealt would have found no sale in Paris.Morok had nearly finished dressing himself, in one of the actor's rooms, which had been lent to him.Over a coat of mail, with cuishes and brassarts, he wore an ample pair of red trousers, fastened round his ankles by broad rings of gilt brass.His long caftan of black cloth, embroidered with scarlet and gold, was bound round his waist and wrist by other large rings of gilt metal.This sombre costume imparted to him an aspect still more ferocious.His thick and red-haired beard fell in large quantities down to his chest, and a long piece of white muslin was folded round his red head.A devout missionary in Germany and an actor in Paris, Morok knew as well as his employers, the Jesuits, how to accommodate himself to circumstances.
Seated in one corner of the room, and contemplating with a sort of stupid admiration, was Jacques Rennepont, better known as "Sleepinbuff" (from the likelihood that he would end his days in rags, or his present antipathy to great care in dress).Since the day Hardy's factory had been destroyed by fire, Jacques had not quitted Morok, passing the nights in excesses, which had no baneful effects on the iron constitution of the lion-tamer.On the other's features, on the contrary, a great alteration was perceptible; his hollow cheeks, marble pallor, his eyes, by turns dull and heavy, or gleaming with lurid fire, betrayed the ravages of debauchery, his parched lips were almost constantly curled by a bitter and sardonic smile.His spirit, once gay and sanguine, still struggled against the besotting influence of habitual intoxication.Unfitted for labor, no longer able to forego gross pleasures, Jacques sought to drown in wine a few virtuous impulses which he still possessed, and had sunk so low as to accept without shame the large dole of sensual gratification proffered him by Morok, who paid all the expenses of their orgies, but never gave him money, in order that he might be completely dependent on him.After gazing at Morok for some time in amazement, Jacques said to him, in a familiar tone: "Well, yours is a famous trade; you may boast that, at this moment, there are not two men like you in the whole world That's flattering.It's a pity you don't stick to this fine trade."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, how is the conspiracy going on, in whose honor you make me keep it up all day and all night?"
"It is working, but the time is not yet come; that is why I wish to have you always at hand, till the great day.Do you complain?"
"Hang it, no!" said Jacques."What could I do? Burnt up with brandy as I am, if I wanted to work, I've no longer the strength to do so.I have not, like you, a head of marble, and a body of iron; but as for fuddling myself with gunpowder, instead of anything else, that'll do for me; I'm only fit for that work now--and then, it will drive away thought."
"Oh what kind?"
"You know that when I do think, I think only of one thing," said Jacques, gloomily.
"The Bacchanal queen?--still?" said Morok, in a disdainful tone.
"Still! rather: when I shall think of her no longer, I shall be dead--or stupefied.Fiend!"
"You were never better or more intelligent, you fool!" replied Morok, fastening his turban.The conversation was here interrupted.Morok's aider entered hastily.
The gigantic form of this Hercules had increased in width.He was habited like Alcides; his enormous limbs, furrowed with veins as thick as whipcord, were covered with a close-fitting flesh-colored garment, to which a pair of red drawers formed a strong contrast.
"Why do you rush in like a storm, Goliath?" said Morok.
"There's a pretty storm in the house; they are beginning to get impatient, and are calling out like madmen.But if that were all!"
"Well, what else?"
"Death will not be able to play this evening."
Morok turned quickly around.He seemed uneasy."Why so?" he exclaimed.
"I have just seen her! she's crouching at the bottom of her cage; her ears lie so close to her head, she looks as if they had been cut off.
You know what that means."
"Is that all?" said Morok, turning to the glass to complete his head-
dress.