would have made Rabelais stop up his ears just
as the Maenads made Aristophanes drop his eyes, tow wigs, pink tights,
dandified hats, spectacles of a grimacer, three-cornered hats of Janot
tormented with a butterfly, shouts directed at pedestrians, fists on
hips, bold attitudes, bare shoulders, immodesty unchained; a chaos of
shamelessness driven by a coachman crowned with flowers; this is what
that institution was like.

Greece stood in need of the chariot of Thespis, France stands in need of
the hackney-coach of Vade.

Everything can be parodied, even parody. The Saturnalia, that grimace of
antique beauty, ends, through exaggeration after exaggeration, in Shrove
Tuesday; and the Bacchanal, formerly crowned with sprays of vine leaves
and grapes, inundated with sunshine, displaying her marble breast in a
divine semi-nudity, having at the present day lost her shape under
the soaked rags of the North, has finally come to be called the
Jack-pudding.

The tradition of carriage-loads of maskers runs back to the most ancient
days of the monarchy. The accounts of Louis XI. allot to the bailiff of
the palace "twenty sous, Tournois, for three coaches of mascarades
in the cross-roads." In our day, these noisy heaps of creatures are
accustomed to have themselves driven in some ancient cuckoo carriage,
whose imperial they load down, or they overwhelm a hired landau, with
its top thrown back, with their tumultuous groups. Twenty of them ride
in a carriage intended for six. They cling to the seats, to the rumble,
on the cheeks of the hood, on the shafts. They even bestride the
carriage lamps. They stand, sit, lie, with their knees drawn up in a
knot, and their legs hanging. The women sit on the men's laps. Far
away, above the throng of heads, their wild pyramid is visible. These
carriage-loads form mountains of mirth in the midst of the rout. Colle,
Panard and Piron flow from it, enriched with slang. This carriage which
has become colossal through its freight, has an air of conquest. Uproar
reigns in front, tumult behind. People vociferate, shout, howl, there
they break forth and writhe with enjoyment; gayety roars; sarcasm flames
forth, joviality is flaunted like a red flag; two jades there drag farce
blossomed forth into an apotheosis; it is the triumphal car of laughter.

A laughter that is too cynical to be frank. In truth, this laughter is
suspicious. This laughter has a mission. It is charged with proving the
Carnival to t