Guillaume Rym was the only one who noticed his eminence's discomfiture.

The attention of the populace, like the sun, pursued its revolution; having set out from one end of the hall, and halted for a space in the middle, it had now reached the other end.
The marble table, the brocaded gallery had each had their day; it was now the turn of the chapel of Louis XI.

Henceforth, the field was open to all folly.

There was no one there now, but the Flemings and the rabble.
The grimaces began.

The first face which appeared at the aperture, with eyelids turned up to the reds, a mouth open like a maw, and a brow wrinkled like our hussar boots of the Empire, evoked such an inextinguishable peal of laughter that Homer would have taken all these louts for gods.