"What to-morrow had to do with to-day's
uproar, I could not exactly see, and so I
intimated to him.

"The day before Ash Wednesday, monsieur,
is Carnival day; therefore it is the Carnival
which has disturbed Messieurs les Anglais."

You must know that Nantes, on all the days of
the year excepting two, is the most droning,
humdrum, stupid, sleepy old town between Biscay
and the Bosphorus. But the two days when
the ex-capital of Britany is galvanised into
something resembling a wide-awake city, are
the Sunday and the Tuesday before the beginning
of Lent.

We hastily consumed the conventional
Breton breakfast which was set before us—the
soup and St. Emilion, the fried fish and filet de
bœuf, the sour bread and preserves, the shrimps
and watercresses—and Tompkins, for once, in
his anxiety to get out, forgot to grumble at the
absence of coffee.

A Nantes merchant, who was a bachelor and
lived at the hotel, hearing our conversation,
politely offered to show us the sights.

"I beg you, messieurs," said he, in the
grand Breton style, "not to wear holiday
suits."

"Why not?"

"Because," he replied, smiling, "orange
juice gives a somewhat unpleasant variety to
the colour of one's cloth."

Later in the day we knew what he meant, to
our cost.

Accompanied by our new friend, we passed
from the hotel court into the square. The steps
of the theatre opposite were covered with a
perfect forest of bonnes' caps. The tops of
the houses, the balconies and windows, and the
the side-walks, were crowded with lookers-on,
who were boisterously enjoying the scene.
Here was a totally new phase of the Breton
character, which I had thought, from previous
experience, stolid and phlegmatic. It was not
such a scene as you witness in the bal masqué
at the Paris Opera. It was more free and
boisterous, more overflowing with homely fun;
far more original in the costumes, the antics,
and the contagious high spirits of the actors.
I almost shrank back into the sheltered precincts
of the hotel, as I saw a party of screaming bonnes
come rushing towards where we stood, blowing
their tin trumpets and waving their brawny arms.
Groups of men and women and boys were
scattered over the square, in every conceivable
disguise, and performing every conceivable caper,
crowding and hustling and shouting, maliciously
pursuing the bonnes who were not disguised,
but had only come out to see the fun, lustily
blowing uncouth horns, and each trying to
outvie the others. Perhaps the most amusing
of all were the multitudes of little wild gamins
—poor ragged urchins, whose home is the
street, whose bed is the doorstep, and whose
food comes how and when chance ordains—and
chimney-sweeps, with their sooty merry faces;
these held high orgies in the streets.

After observing the scene in front of the hotel
awhile, our obliging Breton friend conducted
us through the long and narrow Rue Crebillon,
the main thoroughfare of Nantes, which was
already so crowded with masquers and spectators
that we moved with great difficulty, and
were persecuted by the merrymakers at every
step. The old houses were supplied, on every
story, with long iron balconies; and upon one
of these we took up our position. From the
point at which we stood, we could sweep with
our eyes the whole street, terminating in a
square at either end; and here it was that we
saw the Carnival in all its glory.

Tompkins, despite the benevolent warning of
monsieur, our friend, had insisted on wearing
the shining silk hat which he had just purchased
at Bordeaux; for he is somewhat foppish, and
had caught sight of the damsels who, in jaunty
French costumes, filled windows in every direction.
We had hardly taken our places on the
balcony when poor Tompkins's hat danced off
sportively in mid-air, closely pursued by a
shattered orange, until both were lost sight of in
the surging crowd beneath.

We were now pelted with, a storm of the
same too juicy fruit, which came from right and
left of us. Orange women, with huge basketsful
of their popular stock, were pressing to and
fro in the throng, selling their oranges by the
dozen at a time, while the air was thick with
the yellow fruit as it sped to and from the
balconies. It was an equal warfare between
man and man; the strongest arm and truest
eye were sure of the victory. On the balconies
on either side of the street might be seen groups
of jauntily dressed gentlemen, each with his
stock of oranges; and when any peculiarly
amusing masquers passed in the line of vehicles,
these would open the battle by pouring down
upon them fruity hail. Then would ensue a
most vigorous retort, the carriage of the
attacked party stopping, and delaying the whole
procession until they had "had it out." Tompkins
was in a measure consoled by seeing hats,
but now as glossy as his own, flying crushed in
every direction, and falling to the ground,
trodden to flatness by the crowd. Now, the
ridiculously long proboscis of some Carnival
Achilles is whisked off and sent flying yards
away; now, a monkish beard is shaven close
and clean, and its loosened hairs fall in a shower
over the people round about. Sometimes, the
combatants, with their stubborn Celtic blood,
are goaded to a momentary warmth on either
side; then the oranges fly thick and fast and
at haphazard, and are thrown, in the blindness
of sudden choler, furiously into the crowd at
large; where, mayhap, they yield their fragrance
on the person of an unoffending priest, as in
long gown and broad-brimmed hat he hastens
nervously along; or attack some pompous old
coachman, in wig and livery, who, as he is
soberly conducting his master's carriage through
the throng, receives an orange plump in the eye,
or, before he knows it, finds his gold-banded
bat missing from its horsehair pinnacle.

But these orange battles were not confined