An old woman, wearing over sordid garments an old furred Polish pelisse,
was the guide--the herald, so to say, to a gentleman in gold spectacles
and a black suit and silk hat, an inspector of police, a sergeant of the
watch, while behind this formidable official nucleus marched a serried
body of civil and of military police. After them all, wringing his fat
hands, trotted the proprietor, with a terrified expression too great not
to be assumed. Waiters completed the retinue, wearing faces much whiter
than the napkins slung on their arms.

As the orchestra faced the audience, they perceived this inroad before
the latter and, as by a signal, ceased playing. The startled dancer, for
all her aristocratic self-command, stopped immediately for explanation,
and, riveting her glances on the female head of the intruders, whom she
recognized--that was clear--stood stupor-stricken.

Claudius, following her hint, turned to the center and had no difficulty
in recognizing in the woman arrayed in the Polish pelisse, the chief of
the beggars, Baboushka. He recalled the remark of the Jew, that she
befriended this debutante, and he was averse to believing it. That
delicious creature and this hideous one in ties of communion!
ridiculous, monstrous!

Spite of his concern for himself, Claudius noticed that twenty or thirty
of the spectators, apparently perplexed at the rare conjunction of their
leader and the authorities in friendly communication, would not wait for
the elucidation but began to make a rush for the outlets.

The voice of the town inspector, rotund and sonorous, froze them with
terror, although not personal.