Katie and Clara grasp both his hands in their clammy ones, and drag him to the footlights. Down below, the audience is still clapping like a waterfall produced by hydrants. The author sees nothing but thousands of round balls in which human eyes are swimming; he attempts an idiotic smile, and bows jerkily several times.
The curtain falls, and the splashing of water dies away into the distance, but ting-a-ling, and the curtain rises again quickly. The author, stretching his hands out to Katie and Clara, now remains alone and abandoned on the stage, centre for a thousand eyes, bows again, suddenly realizes with horror that he is bowing in a most ridiculous manner, just like a marionette—can’t help it, though—bows right and left, to the gallery and to the stalls, and steps backwards. Friends and strangers standing in the wings shake his perspiring hands furiously, repeating over and over again, “ Congratulations! Congratulations!” Ting-a-ling, the author finds himself on the stage again without knowing
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