"What," cried the impresario, tearing his hair. "Crowds flocked to
me in London, Paris, St. Petersburg, and New York. I have been
congratulated by the Shah of Persia, invited to lunch by the Grand
Turk, and this little hole despises me, mocks at me, considers me
a failure."
The lights out, Sir Booum spent a terrible night, wondering what
evil genius could thus attack his laurels. At dawn, worn out by
his sleepless night, he set out, eager to learn the cause of his
failure.
All those whom he met winked knowingly, laughing in their sleeves,
and courtesied to him without giving him any information. At last
one, touched by his despair, answered:
"Why should we come to you? We have here in this very place, where
we can see it for nothing, a marvel beside which yours are
commonplace. Have you in your menagerie a curly-haired hen?"
"A curly-haired hen!" cried Sir Booum. "Gracious, goodness me!
What are you talking about? Three times have I been round the
world and have never heard of such a thing."
"Go to the big farm down yonder and you can see the one I am
telling you about. You will be ashamed to think how uninteresting
in comparison are the things you show."
A few minutes later, a magnificent equipage, driven by an elegant
gentleman and drawn by two light bays, entered the courtyard of
the big farm.
"Does Madame Etienne live here, please?" he asked Petit-Jacques,
who was busy grooming Coco.
"Yes, sir."
"Will you kindly give her this card and ask if she will see me?"
"Certainly, sir, at once.
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