The Adventures of Mr. Maximillian Bacchus and His Travelling Circus Read Online Free PDF Page B

her.”
    Bathsheba was quiet for a moment, recalling the snake-woman’s lidless gaze. Then she said: “I was so unhappy with Bentham’s Theatre; all I wanted was to escape. Well, the wind was so strong, and so I opened my parasol this evening, and took off.”
    “Do you think the Doctor followed you?” asked Ophelia.
    “I don’t know,” said Bathsheba. “I heard him cursing, but by that time, I was in the cloud.”
    “Well you’re safe here,” said Hero. “We won’t let him take you back. You don’t belong to him.”
    “He’ll be wrathful,” said Bathsheba.
    “Let the fellow try his worst,” said Malachi. “I shall deal with him. Just give me a—”
    At that moment, there were two loud raps on the door, and a cold, even voice said:
    “Whoever’s in there, be civil enough to show your faces.”
    Bathsheba turned pale under her orange fur. “It’s him,” she hissed. “It’s Bentham.”
    Malachi, forgetting his former show of gallantry, slipped under the table as quietly as he could, as Doctor Bentham’s voice pierced the door once more, harsh as ice on slate.
     

     
     
    “Is there anybody within?” it requested, and then demanded, “Bacchus, are you there?”
    “Hide,” whispered Bacchus to Bathsheba. “Hide yourself in the costume basket.”
    The orang-outang promptly tumbled into the large basket and pulled the lid down after her. Then Mr. Bacchus strolled casually to the door and opened it. The drawn face of Doctor Jozabiah Bentham stared into the warmth of the caravan, like so many gargoyles. There was not the flicker of an eyelid, nor the twitch of a tail. Doctor Bentham himself, dressed from head to foot in shades of grey, looked straight at Mr. Bacchus, his eyes glassy. In his long grey-gloved fingers he held a silver cane, polished like a mirror.
    “If you’re selling stained glass or chains, we’ve got enough,” said Mr. Bacchus, trying to close the door again, but the Doctor already had one foot inside the caravan.
    “Bacchus,” he said slowly. “Would you close the door on a fellow showman? Perhaps you would be kind enough to help me. I’m looking for a monkey.”
    “Oh!” said Mr. Bacchus, effecting a surprised expression. “A monkey?? Really? Well, we haven’t seen a monkey, have we?”
    Everyone shook their heads.
    “Are you sure?” said Dr. Bentham, tapping his cane in the palm of his hand.
    “Quite sure,” replied Mr. Bacchus. “We haven’t seen any monkey.”
    “Or an orang-outang,” put in Ophelia.
    “I made no mention of an orang-outang,” said Doctor Bentham, his eyes narrowing. “Whatever could have made you think I was in search of such a misbegotten species?”
    Ophelia attempted to reply, but her mouth had become completely dry, and Medea’s blind cobra had fixed its dead gaze upon her, so that her tongue would not move in her mouth.
    “Only guessing,” said Bacchus, to cover up the awkward silence. “Who has not heard of the Theatre of Tears?”
    “Doubtless you have also heard of my orang-outang,” said Bentham, curtly.
    “Doubtless …!” said Bacchus. “And now, if you’ll excuse—”
    “Do you happen to have a glass of wine you might offer me?” said the Doctor, softening his tone somewhat. “The night has quite frozen my blood.”
    “No,” replied Mr. Bacchus, wiping little beads of sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. “I’m afraid the last of the wine was spilt.”
    “No, it wasn’t,” said Domingo helpfully, producing one of the casks of wine from the chest of drawers. “There’s some left.”
    By the time he caught Mr. Bacchus’ eye, it was too late. Doctor Bentham was seated in Mr. Bacchus’ wicker chair, pouring the wine, saying: “How civilized of you, Bacchus. The world knows that we have been enemies for centuries, yet you invite me into your little caravan and offer me wine.” He soothed his silver cane with his fingers and sipped a little of the wine with distaste.
    At that moment, a peacock