J. H. Walter seemed pleased with my praises; his British stiffness thawed, and we chatted familiarly. I was very curious to know whether this acrobatic monstrosity had attracted much notice from the women. He frankly replied— “Sir, the chastity which monks do not always observe is forced upon an artist of my class. You will guess that I did not obtain this complete flexibility in one day. On the very morning of my birth my father commenced to bend my joints. I grew up with the idea that I would be the greatest disarticulated artist of the century, or perhaps of all ages. I never had any other ambition. With regard to the point on [p251] which you question me, the greatest reserve is imposed upon me. I have all the appearance of a strong man; my chest is wider than your own, but beneath it I conceal the lungs of a child; they are stunted by the daily pressure of my thoracic cage. Consumption threatens me, and will carry me off very early unless I break my neck in the circus some evening, which I should certainly prefer.” [Illustration] The acrobat told me all this without any affectation, in so natural and decided a tone that I did not feel justified in pitying his fate. But since I wished to know what sentiment could survive, in a being of such mediocre intellectual culture, his resignation to the sacrifice of life, I said to him with some interest— “I quite understand; dear Monsieur Walter, that the applause you receive seems to you, whilst it lasts, a sufficient reward for your past sufferings and approaching end. But, tell me, when the fever of the circus has passed away, in your hours of leisure and solitude like this one, do you not curse your destiny?” The Englishman smiled quietly. “I have,” he replied, “a specific against _ennui_—a passion which saves me from reflection. I gamble, sir, gamble madly for whole nights at a time. I stake the thousands of francs which the managers [p252] pay me every month; worse than that, I have staked my skeleton, and lost it!” The terrace of the _café_, where we were talking, had become empty through the lateness of the hour; the waiters had already closed the front, and were taking in the chairs. [Illustration] The Serpent-man rose; and as I stared at him with wonder in my eyes, he added— “We are driven from here, sir. Will you accompany me to my hotel? I will tell you how it occurred.” He led me to a family boarding-house in the Rue du Colisée, which has no customers except the acrobats who pass through Paris. J. H. Walter occupied a fairly comfortable room on the first floor. He lighted a lamp, and [p253] when we were seated, facing each other, he continued his story in these words—