“Her nose is too big!”

“Big noses do very well on the stage. Besides, I tell you again, daughter, that I desire to be polite to Monsieur Camuzard, and I know that it gives him great pleasure when his daughter acts.” And Monsieur Glumeau added, with a glance at his wife: “We must try to make Astianax act a lover’s part, and let Mademoiselle Polymnie be the sweetheart. You understand my ideas and my plans, don’t you, Lolotte?”

“Yes, monsieur, they are not hard to understand. Mademoiselle Camuzard would be an excellent match, I know; but Astianax is still so young!”

“I married very young myself, madame, and I have never repented it.”

“Ah! that’s the nicest thing you have said to-day!”

“It seems to me that I say nice things very often; but you don’t notice them because you are used to them.—This tea has done me good; I feel as light as a bird; I would like to dance a mazurka.—Speaking of dancing, Eolinde, have you practised on your piano the new quadrilles that I brought you?”

“Oh! they are too hard.”

“I know very well that everybody pl—plays the piano now. The c—c—concierge’s daughter plays it; and the other day the l—l—locksmith who c—c—came to fix a lock which wouldn’t l—l—lock, said when he heard me pl—playing: ‘I play the piano myself Sundays, when I have time.’—Isn’t that so, mamma?”

“It’s the truth; indeed I was tempted to say to the locksmith that he ought to put over his shop door: ‘Bells hung with piano accompaniment!’”

“In fact, papa, the p—p—piano has become such a common inst—st—strument, that I would rather play something else.”

“What, I should like to know?”

“Why, the little flute, for example.”

“You are mad, Eolinde; it would be very pretty to see a young lady playing on the flute! Wind instruments are exclusively for men.”

“Why is that, papa?”

“Why, because, as Apollo played the flute when he kept flocks, and as that god was the god of melody, the pipes and the flute—By the way, Lolotte, I hope you told Chambourdin to come; he’s a very pleasant fellow, a leader in all sorts of fun, always merry and a true sport. He will act, and I’ll wager that he’ll be most amusing!”

“True, but as his sister is extremely hard of hearing, she always has to stand within two steps of the prompter, which is a great nuisance for the action of the play; and sometimes too she talks at the same time that her opposite is talking.—Bigre! here comes that pain in the stomach again. What can it be? Did we have mushrooms yesterday, Lolotte?”

“Mushrooms? there were some in the vol-au-vent we had; but everybody ate some of it, and it didn’t make anybody sick.”

“That doesn’t prove anything; sometimes it doesn’t show itself until late; Eolinde, you haven’t a pain in your stomach, have you?”

“On the contrary, papa.”

“What do you mean by on the contrary; you either have a pain, or——”

“No, s—s—since I—I say on the c—c—contrary!”

“My child, your answers are very foolish.—If this doesn’t go away, I will tell the maid to prepare me an enema of marshmallow.”

“I don’t care for that; if I am ill, it seems to me that it is more important to take care of me than to get the dinner.”

“But, monsieur, we have ten people to dinner, and it’s after four o’clock.”

“Then, madame, go and prepare it for me yourself.”

“Mon Dieu! just for a paltry pain in the stomach! Often it doesn’t amount to anything; go—somewhere, monsieur, and it will pass away.”

“I shall not go anywhere, madame, because I have no desire to.”

“Papa, suppose we should play Pourceaugnac?”

“Hold your tongue, my child; you tire me!”

“Dear me, Eolinde!” said Madame Glumeau with a sigh, “why should we play Pourceaugnac on our little stage; we play it often enough in our family, as well as Le Malade Imaginaire!”

Monsieur Glumeau was about to reply to his wife when the bell rang.

“Company! company already!” cried stout Lolotte, “and I haven’t finished dressing!”

“And my enema, madame! I must have it!” said her husband in an altered voice.

But the salon door opened, and Monsieur Dufournelle and his wife appeared.

Monsieur Dufournelle was a stout party of forty-five, with a jovial face which denoted a frank and hearty disposition. His wife, who was hardly thirty, was pretty, had a good figure, and laughed all the time; it is needless to say that she had fine teeth; if they had been ugly she would not have laughed on all occasions.

“Good afternoon, my friends!” said Monsieur Dufournelle, with an “ouf!” which sent the sheets of music scattered over the piano flying about the room. “We have come early; it’s bad form, but we don’t care for that!—You are all well, my dear friends?”

“Very well—extremely well! It is so nice of you to come early!” said Madame Glumeau, dissembling a slight grimace.

“I remarked to my husband,” rejoined the lady with the fine teeth, “that perhaps it would be discourteous for us to come before five o’clock; but he replied that we didn’t stand on ceremony with you.”

“Besides, we have lots of things to talk about,” said Madame Dufournelle; “aren’t we to distribute the parts to-day for our performance?—Ha! ha! what fun it will be! I have never acted, but I am looking forward to it. Ha! ha!”

“Would you believe that my wife hasn’t talked about anything else for a fortnight, and I have to take her to the theatre every night, because she claims that that is like giving her lessons! One day she tries to imitate Scriwaneck, another time Mademoiselle Fargueil; then it’s Aline Duval whom she tries to mimic, or else pretty Alphonsine, or Grassot.”

“Oh! really, Monsieur Dufournelle, what are you talking about? Imitate Grassot indeed! do you suppose that I mean to take men’s parts? Ha! ha! ha!”

“I don’t know, but I assure you that you caught some of Grassot’s intonations when you were rehearsing—I don’t know what rôle.—But where is our dear little Astianax? aren’t we to see him?”

“Yes, indeed, you will see him; he should be at home before this; I don’t know where he can have gone.”

“I’ll bet that he’s gone to get a b—b—bouquet for p—p—papa.”

“A bouquet! what! it can’t be that it’s Glumeau’s birthday?”

“Why, isn’t this Saint-Honoré’s day?”

“That is true, my dear; we are very thoughtless!”

“All the same, my dear friend, I wish you many happy returns; the bouquet will come later!”

“Thanks! thanks!” replied Glumeau, with a significant glance at his wife. “At this moment, a bouquet isn’t what I want.”

“I must go and complete my toilet,” said the buxom Lolotte, answering her husband’s signs with a wink. “You will excuse me, won’t you?”

“Excuse you? why, of course.”

“Yes, go and do—do what you have to do!” cried Glumeau, staring at his feet with a distressed expression. “And I will come too.”

“You see, we came too early!” said Madame Dufournelle; “we are in the way.”

“Why, not at all! you see that we do not stand on ceremony.”

As Madame Glumeau was about to leave the salon, the door opened, and an old and exceedingly ugly man in blue spectacles entered, escorting a tall and well-built young lady, dressed with affected elegance, and endowed with one of those faces that never change.

“Monsieur and Mademoiselle Camuzard!” cried Madame Glumeau, turning back to welcome the newcomers. “How good of you to come early! Pray come in.—Edouard, here are Monsieur Camuzard and Mademoiselle Polymnie.”

“I shall never be able to take my enema! this is getting to be very alarming!”

Mademoiselle Polymnie had in her hand a huge bouquet, which she presented to Glumeau, saying:

“Monsieur, will you allow me to wish you a happy birthday?”

“To be sure, mademoiselle, with the greatest pleasure; I am deeply touched. What a superb bouquet! You are too kind.”

“Sapristi! how sorry I am that we didn’t bring one!” exclaimed Dufournelle again, while his wife laughed heartily as she looked at the pictures on the music and at Mademoiselle Camuzard.

“How is your health, my dear Glumeau?” inquired the old gentleman, shaking his host’s hand violently.

“Very good, Monsieur Camuzard; my health is very fair, although it isn’t all that I could wish.”

“Are you in pain?—I have pains in my knees and arms; and it keeps catching me here, you see, and extends all the way down my back.”

“It’s not my back that troubles me, it’s——”

“And then I cough a great deal every morning when I wake up; there are days when I have regular paroxysms.”

“I don’t cough, but——”

“This is not a very amusing conversation!” said Madame Dufournelle in an undertone to her husband; he frowned at his wife, to enjoin silence upon her, whereupon she went to Mademoiselle Eolinde.

“Well!” she said, “what are we to act? have you decided on the plays? What part are you going to give me? I want a pretty costume.”

“You see how co—co—coquettish she is!” said Mademoiselle Glumeau, turning to her mother; “the co—costume is the first th—th—thing she th—thinks of.”

“We haven’t yet decided on the whole entertainment,” said Madame Glumeau; “we are waiting until our whole troupe has arrived.”

“If you need me,” said Monsieur Camuzard, “don’t hesitate; I’ll play any small part, or a utility rôle.”

“It’s to be hoped that we shall not need him!” whispered Madame Dufournelle to her husband; “he’s altogether too hideous; he looks like a bird of prey.”

“Hush, Eléonore, I beg you.”

“My dear love, pray go and attend to what you have to do,” said Monsieur Glumeau, looking at his wife. “Our friends will excuse you; they know that the mistress of the house always has orders to give.”

“Do go, dear lady; your charming daughter is here to do the honors, you know.”

“Since you are good enough to excuse me—I have something to attend to.”

“Oh, no! you are too kind; I don’t need any help for what I have to do; I will return in a moment.”

And the mistress of the house was once more on the point of leaving the room, when the door opened again to admit two other guests, a gentleman and a lady, both of mature years, who came forward smiling pleasantly at the company.

“Monsieur and Mademoiselle Mangeot!” exclaimed Madame Glumeau, who was obliged to step back as she curtsied, because the newcomers came straight toward her. “How very good of you to come early!”

“Why, you said five o’clock, and it is just about to strike the hour,” replied the gentleman, bowing low. “I am as exact as a pendulum; I hurried my sister who, I thought, would never finish arranging her hair; I always dread being late.”

“Yes, my brother wanted to ride,” said Mademoiselle Mangeot, “but I reminded him that we should arrive sooner on foot than in an omnibus.—Will you allow me to wish you a happy birthday, Monsieur Glumeau?”

And the middle-aged damsel, producing a pretty little bouquet of pompon roses, which she had under her shawl, presented it to Glumeau, who smelt it, making a peculiar face, and replied:

“Really, mademoiselle, you overwhelm me—pompon roses!”

“You are fond of them, I believe?”

“Oh, yes! I am very fond of them—but not too hot.”

“Oh! I beg pardon, mademoiselle, I made a mistake; I meant to say that it would give me great pleasure to take it now.”

“Why, take it then, monsieur; as you see, I am offering it to you for that purpose.”

“To be sure—excuse me—I am absent-minded; I do take it—that is to say, yes, I accept these lovely roses.”

“You take them awkwardly; you will prick yourself; you should let me put them in myself.”

“Put them where, pray?”

“Why, in your buttonhole.”

“Sapristi! how annoyed I am that I didn’t bring a bouquet!” repeated stout Dufournelle; and Mademoiselle Eolinde, overhearing him, muttered between her teeth:

“He s—s—says that every year, but he n—n—never brings one.”

“My dear Monsieur Glumeau,” said Monsieur Mangeot, stepping forward to shake hands with the master of the house, who seemed determined to keep his hands pressed against his abdomen, “pray accept my good wishes also, and may I be able to offer them again a hundred years hence.—That’s not a new idea, but it’s always good!—And the dear boy, the charming Astianax, where is he, pray?”

“You know, mamma, that my b—b—brother was going to order a b—b—bouquet full of meaning; no d—d-doubt—no doubt that is what is k—k—keeping him.”

“What on earth is a bouquet with a meaning?” inquired Monsieur Camuzard.

“It’s a selam, monsieur.”

“Ah! and what might a selam be?”

“It’s a bouquet with a meaning.”

“Excellent!”

“When a man has a daughter named Polymnie, he ought to be more learned,” said Madame Dufournelle laughingly to Mademoiselle Mangeot; and she, being a little hard of hearing, replied:

“Yes, I think it will be fine.”

Meanwhile Madame Glumeau, noticing her husband’s repeated signals, determined to leave the salon without asking leave of the latest comers. And fearing that other guests might arrive to detain her, she made her escape by a door leading to her bedroom.

Madame Dufournelle laughed until she cried, saying to her husband:

“Pray stop that gentleman or he will upset the whole company.”

They got young Kingerie seated at last; he was at a loss to apologize for his awkwardness and seemed disposed to weep; but, luckily for him, other guests arrived, so that he ceased to monopolize the attention.

First, there was a gentleman of very attractive appearance and with a distinguished air, whom they called Monsieur de Merval; he entered the salon with the ease of manner born of familiarity with good society, saluted one and all without knocking anybody down, and shook hands with Monsieur Glumeau without hitting him in the stomach. Although Monsieur de Merval was no longer a young man, he was still most attractive; which was proved by the fact that when he entered the salon, all the ladies, young and old, drew themselves up, and composed their features and their bearing; you will never see a woman do all that for a man who is not worth the trouble.

“I do not see madame,” replied the newcomer, after paying his respects to Mademoiselle Eolinde.

“Mamma will be here d—d—directly; she has g—g—gone to pre—pre——”

“My wife has gone to see if dinner will be served soon,” hastily interposed Monsieur Glumeau. “The master’s eye, you know, or rather the mistress’s, is always indispensable when one entertains a few friends.”

“And your son?”

“My son—I can’t understand his absence; he should have been here long ago; something has happened——”

“P—p—papa, I think I hear my b—b—brother’s voice in the d—d—dining-room; he’s with Monsieur Cha—Chambourdin.”

“That’s very fortunate; we shall know in a minute what has detained him.”—And Monsieur Glumeau whispered in his daughter’s ear: “Go and see if your mother has prepared—you know what. I must have it.”

“But p—p—papa, I c—c—can’t—can’t leave the s—s—salon n—now; that would l—l—leave only you with the g—g—guests, and you’re not very b—b—brilliant.”

“Mesdames and messieurs, I have the honor to present a young man who was scampering upstairs, without stopping at his worthy father’s door; but I seized him on the wing, saying: ‘My dear boy, it is too late to go up to your room; the paternal arms await you and the soup must be served.’—Still, he wouldn’t come, and you see now how he objects to coming in.”

“What does this mean, my son?” inquired Monsieur Glumeau, after shaking the hand that Chambourdin offered him. “Why do you stand there at the door and not come in?”

“Excuse me, father—allow me to go up to my room a moment; I will come right down again; it is impossible for me to face our guests at this moment.”

“What! impossible? why, you’re facing them now.”

“And I don’t see that the boy is dressed like a wild Indian, either!” said Chambourdin, as he saluted the ladies.

“My dear good father, I assure you that I have something on that is—is not presentable.”

“Mon Dieu! c—c—can it be that my b—b—brother has the same trouble as p—p—papa?” said tall Eolinde to herself; “does he want one t—t—too?”

“Great heaven!”

“Ah! the poor fellow!”

“Both knees torn! he must have fallen.”

“You fell, didn’t you?”

“How does it happen, my son, that those trousers, which are almost new, are torn on both knees?”

“Well! now you know why I didn’t want to come in—you see that I was right. Am I presentable like this?”

“But, my son——”

“It is I who am to blame for everything!” cried Chambourdin; “I forced him to disclose his disaster. Strictly, I ought to lend him some trousers, but as I believe he has another pair, I prefer that he should wear his own.—Go, hapless victim of a slippery sidewalk, but don’t be long! something tells me that the soup is not far away.”

Little Astianax disappeared, and Monsieur Glumeau would have been glad to do as much, but his guests surrounded him and talked to him; he was hemmed in on all sides.

“Everybody must have come, is it not so, my dear friend?” said Chambourdin, offering him snuff in one of those snuff-boxes known as rat-tails.

“Thirteen! I had just as soon sit thirteen at table. Truffles, champagne, chambertin and thirteen at table every day—I’ll subscribe for that if I don’t have to pay in advance.”

“Or if you don’t have to pay afterward, perhaps?” said Monsieur Dufournelle.

“Oh! what a spiteful thing to say, big Dufournelle! How fat the fellow is growing! If he keeps on he won’t be able to go into any house; partitions of decent dimensions no longer conceal him—he will have to have some made expressly for him.”

“Hold your tongue, advocate without causes!”

“I an advocate? Oh! I have abandoned the profession; I wasn’t loquacious enough, and then I was too good a fellow. I settled disputes on the instant. I induced the parties to dine together and I dined with them; we all got tipsy; after dinner they embraced and that was the end of their litigation. My confrères begged me to give up practice—I was ruining the profession.”

“Whom else do you expect, Monsieur Glumeau?” inquired Monsieur Camuzard.

“A lady—a charming lady—not very young, but very good-looking still.”

“And her name?”

“The Baronne de Grangeville.”

“A baroness! the deuce! a real baroness?”

“I never knew a sham one.”

“I was joking.—Is she married?”

“Oho! a widow, eh? And rich?”

“I believe that she is very rich.—But I beg pardon—I have to say a word to my daughter.”

“I can’t conceive what your mother is doing!” said Glumeau in his daughter’s ear. “I can’t remain in this plight. Something must have happened to the instrument. Go and see, Eolinde, and urge your mother to make haste.”

Mademoiselle Eolinde was sorely vexed to be obliged to leave the company; she went out of the room with a sulky expression, and without acknowledging the fifth bow that young Kingerie addressed to her.

“Something out of the natural course is going on here,” said Madame Dufournelle to her husband; “Madame Glumeau goes out and does not return; the son’s trousers are all torn, and he disappears; the daughter has left the salon in a pet; Monsieur Glumeau stands first on one leg, then on the other; he frowns and doesn’t pay any attention to the conversation. There certainly is something wrong!”

“Some dish spoiled, or some entrée from the restaurant that hasn’t come, perhaps; or rather, they are making great preparations to receive this baroness whom they expect.”

“Nonsense! really? a baroness of what?”

“What do you say? a baroness of what?—A baroness, that’s all I know.”

“Hush, Eléonore!”

“Bah! I don’t care a snap of my finger for their baroness!”

“It’s after half-past five,” said Monsieur Mangeot to his sister; “I trust they will give us some dinner soon; I am half starved!”

“I fancy that you have time to tighten your waistband; they are expecting a baroness, so Monsieur Camuzard told us just now.”

“Oho! confound it! I must admit that at this moment I would much rather see a stuffed turkey than a baroness. They are capable of making us wait till six o’clock. I don’t know anything more intolerable than not to give your guests their dinner at the appointed time. If you mean to dine at half-past six, don’t invite me at five; for otherwise, I would make my arrangements accordingly and take something to stay my stomach.—Ah! the door opens—it is the long-desired baroness, no doubt.”

“No, it’s Madame Glumeau coming back.”

The buxom Lolotte had, in fact, reappeared in the salon; she tried to catch her husband’s eye, but she was obliged to stop and welcome the guests who had arrived during her absence. She had much ado to get rid of Monsieur Chambourdin, who embraced her, and of young Kingerie, who trod on her dress. At last she succeeded in joining Edouard, whose contortions were becoming alarming, and whispered to him:

Glumeau’s face beamed.

“Go, my dear,” his wife added aloud, “and see if the table is laid as you wish; if the names of the guests are arranged to your satisfaction.”

“Yes, yes, you are right; I will go; but we can’t sit down, you know, until Madame de Grangeville comes.”

“All right, all right! but go.”

Glumeau did not wait to be told again; he hurried toward the door, saying to himself:

“At last I can take it!”

But as he opened the door, he found himself face to face with a very fashionably dressed lady who was just about to enter. The unhappy host stopped short, saying:

“It is written that I shall not take it!”

The Baronne de Grangeville, the latest arrival at Monsieur Glumeau’s, was a lady who had once been exceedingly pretty, and who was still rather attractive; by artificial light she appeared no more than thirty-six years old; by daylight, about thirty-nine; we are not certain how she appeared by twilight.

The baroness’s arrival created a sensation in Monsieur Glumeau’s salon, for it should be said that none of the guests there assembled had previously met that lady, to whom the Glumeaus had been introduced at a third house, where, delighted with her affability, they had invited her to dine with them.

The master of the house, despite his interesting situation, could not do otherwise than offer the lady his hand to escort her to his wife, who received the baroness with an effusion of cordiality and satisfaction which seemed overdone to some of the guests.

“She is very good-looking,” said Monsieur Dufournelle to his wife, who whispered:

“No! you should say, she has been.”

“But I say yes, she is now; she is a person who still makes conquests, I am sure.”

“Ah! I am glad to hear that, my dear; it makes me think that I shall continue to be attractive for a long time to come.”

“A lovely dress, a very distinguished bearing!” said Monsieur Camuzard to his daughter.

“Her dress is too long-waisted.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the facetious Chambourdin, tapping Monsieur Mangeot on the shoulder, “that’s rather a dainty bit still, eh? What do we think of it, friend Mangeot?”

“I think that it’s almost six o’clock, and that I am starving to death!”

“As the baroness has arrived, dinner will probably be served.”

“Why, no—look—there’s Glumeau running away now! Do you see how he slinks off? Where in the devil can he be going?”

“We must keep him here.”

But the gentlemen were too late that time; Monsieur Glumeau finally succeeded in leaving the salon; he would have left one of his coat tails there rather than not go.

Amid all the reflections and comments to which Madame de Grangeville’s entrance had given rise, a single person had said not a word—that person was Monsieur de Merval. However, he had scrutinized the baroness no less closely, perhaps even more closely, than the others had done, and his expression, as he looked at her, seemed to indicate that it was not the first time that he had seen her; being a man of the world, however, he was able to conceal his sensations.

Young Astianax reappeared in other clothes and was greeted with cheers by Chambourdin and Dufournelle, who told him that all the ladies had looked at his trousers.

The little fellow lost no time in presenting his respects to the Baronne de Grangeville, to whom he delivered a complimentary address that lasted a long time, while Monsieur Mangeot persisted in whispering to his neighbors:

“I say, are we never going to dine? It’s after six; I was very hungry, but you will see that my appetite will have vanished when we sit down at the table.”

“Where is the famous bouquet you were going to present to your father, young hidalgo?” Chambourdin asked the son of the house.

“The bouquet? Oh! don’t mention it, my dear Chambourdin! It was that infernal bouquet that caused the accident to my trousers.”

“No; it’s a long story! There’s a flower girl—who is very pretty—oh! I tell you she’s a beauty!”

“Enough, enough, you scamp! I don’t wish to know any more;—but you may give me the flower girl’s address.”

Madame de Grangeville continued to talk with Madame Glumeau and Mademoiselle Eolinde; but the rest of the guests assumed that morose and surly air which always invades a salon when dinner is delayed too long. Some looked at the ceiling, others walked about the room, concealing their yawns; this one consulted the clock at every instant, another stretched himself out in an easy-chair and tapped the floor impatiently. But at last the door of the salon opened, and a servant appeared and said:

“Madame is served.”

“It seems that it did him good.”

Glumeau shot through his guests like an arrow and offered his arm to the baroness, who accepted it. They adjourned to the dining-room and took their seats at the table in the order established by the cards. Madame de Grangeville naturally was seated beside the host, and Monsieur Camuzard was on her other side. Madame Glumeau had seated Monsieur de Merval beside herself, so that that gentleman was at some distance from the baroness; not so far, however, that his eyes did not meet hers from time to time; and, strange to say, at such times Monsieur de Merval always lowered his first.

When their appetites were appeased sufficiently to permit the guests to be agreeable, or at least to try to appear so, the conversation became animated, and they turned at last to the subject which had led to that festivity—the performance to be given on Monsieur Glumeau’s little stage in the country, and the distribution of parts.

“Unless something better is suggested, we propose to give La Forêt Périlleuse,” said Madame Glumeau.

“Very good,” said Chambourdin; “but in addition to the speaking parts, we must have robbers, a band of robbers.”

“We will find some,” said Glumeau; “robbers are not what we lack.”

“The deuce! are they abundant in the neighborhood of your country house?”

“Of course, with a theatre in the woods, we mustn’t wait until the bad weather begins.”

“Well then, we will say La Forêt Périlleuse; my servants and my gardener will be the robbers.”

“Oh! very good! excellent!”

“I will p—p—play the fair Ca—Ca—the fair Ca—Ca—Camille.”

“You are entitled to.”

“And my b—b—brother the robber chief.”

“Better and better—just as it used to be at Nicolet’s!”

“I say, I really believe Chambourdin is laughing at us! What do the company think?”

“No indeed! but it’s lawful to laugh, isn’t it?” said Chambourdin; “I don’t imagine that you are going to act with sober faces all the time. Besides, am I not one of your troupe? I will take whatever part you wish—a robber, a tyrant, a victim. But allow me to make one suggestion; instead of your Forêt Périlleuse, which is not wonderfully clever, and in which there is only one female part—and that one doesn’t come on in the first act—why don’t you give Roderic et Cunégonde? That’s a splendid parody on the fashionable melodrama, and full of wit from end to end; indeed, it’s by the late Martainville, who had wit to sell, so I have been told; for I never knew him.”

“But there’s a child in Roderic et Cunégonde,” said Monsieur Mangeot.

“That’s all right! we’ll make one.”

“What do you say? you’ll make one?”

“To be sure, of pasteboard; with a doll; that’s simple enough.”

“But the child has something to say.”

“That makes a difference; we will have one that can talk; at a pinch I will play the child myself.”

“No, no,” said Monsieur Glumeau, “we’ll have my gardener’s little one; he’s a very smart child.”

“Are there any other female parts?”

“There’s a peasant—little Colas; we’ll turn him into a girl—little Colette.”

“That’s right; and Mademoiselle Polymnie will take the part.”

“She would have made a little Colas quite as well!” whispered Madame Dufournelle to Chambourdin, who replied:

“Such things are thought, not said.”

“There’s one piece chosen,” said Mangeot, “so far so good; but you are going to give something besides that, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course; we must have a very lively farce.”

“Yes,” said Dufournelle, “that’s very amusing; we saw it, didn’t we, Eléonore?—She laughed so much that we came near having to leave the theatre.”

“I don’t know that play,” said Monsieur Camuzard. “Are there actually any asses in it?”

“There are three—but they’re dressed as men.”

“Ah! very good!”

And the old gentleman turned to the baroness and said: “I don’t understand, do you, madame?”

The baroness looked at her neighbor with an ironical expression, and replied:

“Have you never seen any, monsieur?”

“Any what, madame?”

“Asses dressed as men.”

“I don’t think so—that is to say—Ah! I see, it’s a metaphor!—That’s a very unkind thing to say.”

“Do you think so, monsieur? I don’t.”

The play suggested was adopted; then they desired a third, to begin the performance.

“Yes,” said Chambourdin, “when you take so much trouble to put yourselves in training, you must give full measure—a performance complet, like an omnibus. I am going to propose a jolly farce, a little one-act affair with three characters: Œil et Nez.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Dufournelle; “do you remember, Eléonore? when we saw it, you laughed so hard that—really you laughed too heartily.”

“And I will be the Eye, if you choose,” laughed Madame Dufournelle.

“And I the Nose,” said Chambourdin.

“But what on earth can this play be in which there’s an Eye and a Nose?” queried Monsieur Camuzard, appealing once more to his neighbor. “I can’t imagine, can you, madame?”

“I, monsieur? Why I am accustomed to seeing them in all the plays that are acted, and it doesn’t seem at all strange to me.”

Far from satisfied with this reply, Monsieur Camuzard dropped his chin on his cravat and his nose beneath his spectacles.

The choice of plays being made, they sent out for books, in order to distribute the rôles during the evening. Then they left the table and returned to the salon, where other guests, invited for the evening, were already assembled.

In the confusion that takes place when a number of people pass from one room to another, it is very easy to approach a person to whom one has something to say. A lover never lets that opportunity escape him, when he has not been seated beside the lady of his thoughts at dinner.

“Have I changed so very much, pray, that Monsieur de Merval does not recognize me?”

“Pardon me, madame—I recognized you perfectly the instant that you arrived.”

“In that case, why did you not speak to me?”

“You have changed your name and I supposed that you did not wish to be recognized; I respected your incognito.”

“If I have changed my name, you must be well aware of the—the reason; you must have learned of what—of what happened to me.”

“People say so many things in society, madame, that one never knows what to believe, and in my opinion the man who believes nothing is wisest.”

“Ah! monsieur, if one could foresee—could conceive what would happen!”

“Why, there are some things that one can easily foresee.”

The baroness cast a penetrating glance at Monsieur de Merval, then rejoined:

“You are not married?”

“No, madame.”

“Faith, I am inclined to think that you have done as well to abstain!—Will you not do me the pleasure to come to see me?”

“You do me much honor, madame; and if it will not be indiscreet——”

“I shall take advantage of your permission, madame.”

“Here is my card.”

Madame Dufournelle, who always knew what was taking place in the salon, no matter where she happened to be, whispered to her husband:

“The baroness seems to be talking with Monsieur de Merval a great deal.”

“What of that? isn’t everybody here talking?”

“Yes, those who know one another.”

“Perhaps they know each other.”

“It looks to me very much that way; she just put something in his hand—something like a small piece of paper. What can it be?”

“Instead of worrying about that, go and select a part; they are just bringing the books.”

“A part. Oh! I mean to have a good one; I don’t propose that they shall make me play a supernumerary, or Monsieur Camuzard’s sweetheart—it’s so agreeable when he speaks to you; he would kill a fly on the wing! And it’s of no use to try to get away from it, for he has a mania for talking into your face.”

“What do you expect, my dear love? everybody hasn’t a perfumed breath.”

“And then,” said Chambourdin, who had overheard their conversation, “we have people with poor digestions—it’s dangerous to speak to them after dinner. And there are some too with decayed teeth; I can’t forgive them, for they might go to a dentist, who would make them inodorous. We also have ladies who lace too tight and ruin their stomachs in that way.”

“Oh! really, monsieur, I don’t believe that!”

“I will procure you the testimony of physicians, madame, to the effect that many ladies, married and unmarried, have attempted to make their waists so slender, have so squeezed their poor bodies, that the internal organs have suffered, and foul breath has arrived after some time. What madness! what idiocy! Ah! mesdames, the most willowy, the most slender waist will never be worth a fresh, pure breath, which is an indispensable accompaniment of beauty!—Dufournelle, I trust that we are going to have a little one?”

“A little what?”

“Parbleu! a little game of bouillotte—you and I and Monsieur de Merval, and that little villain of a Miaulard, who has just arrived sneezing; he always has a cold in his head.”

“Playing what?”

“Why, little games.”

“More or less innocent.—I’ll do it, on condition that I am allowed to play blindman’s-buff sitting down, and that the ladies guess who I am.—Ah! good! if that unlucky Kingerie hasn’t upset a Carcel lamp, and Mademoiselle Glumeau’s dress is covered with oil! That youth is really very dangerous in company!”

“Oho! there’s a different sort of thing over yonder! Just look at Mademoiselle Polymnie and Monsieur Astianax playing battledore and shuttlecock, and seated, at that!”

“Why, no, they’re going to play cup and ball; they both have pointed sticks in their hands.”

“It’s a new kind of shuttlecock, monsieur: instead of hitting it with a racquet, somebody, not long ago, invented cornets to catch it in; but it’s a much prettier way that they do it now: the shuttlecock has a hole at the end, and you have to catch it by sticking the point into the hole.”

“That’s a game that the ladies enjoy greatly; it is immensely popular in salons.”

“But it must be rather hard.”

“Mademoiselle Polymnie is very strong at it, they say; she has asked young Kingerie to come to count the strokes.”

And Chambourdin walked toward them, saying:

“Oh! what a pretty game! I am sorry that I didn’t see the beginning. How many times have they caught it in succession, Monsieur Kingerie?”

“Once!” the young man replied, as he stooped again to pick up the shuttlecock.

Many more guests arrived, and as the salon was crowded, Mademoiselle Polymnie and her adversary were obliged to abandon their game, evidently to the intense dissatisfaction of the young lady.

“It’s a pity,” she said; “we were beginning to play so well!”

“How does she succeed, I wonder, when she plays badly!” said Madame Dufournelle laughingly.

But the master of the house, having no pain in his stomach, insisted that they must dance. The bouillotte players were removed to an adjoining room, and an amateur took his place at the piano and played a polka, then a redowa, then a mazurka; for the quadrille is sadly neglected now; it is abandoned for new-fangled dances, which the dancers do not know in most cases, and which, consequently, they dance very poorly. The old-fashioned quadrille ventures to show its head only at long intervals nowadays, and it is treated with a discourtesy which will end by banishing it altogether.

“Ah! what a good thing it was that he took it!”

“What? a dancing-master?” queried Monsieur Camuzard. But Madame Glumeau turned away without replying and requested Monsieur Kingerie to leave the piano, as he had already broken several strings.

About eleven o’clock Madame de Grangeville vanished from the salon, after looking about in vain for Monsieur de Merval. But he had departed some time before, and the elegant baroness, who had counted upon a gentleman to escort her home, entered her cab all alone, frowning and muttering:

“Ah! men aren’t so agreeable as they used to be!”

The gentleman turned into Rue Charlot, in the heart of the Marais, walking very slowly, because of his lame foot, and also because he never failed to stop and turn around whenever a pretty face passed; which caused Chicotin to say:

“This old boy seems to be a connoisseur! I ought to have let myself out by the hour, and I should have made a handsome thing of it!”

The gentleman finally stopped in front of a small furnished lodging house, of very modest appearance, on Rue de Bretagne. He turned to the messenger and said with a smile:

“Here we are, this is my hotel. It doesn’t come up to Hôtel Meurice, or even to Hôtel des Ambassadeurs! Other times, other hotels.—Follow me.”

Chicotin followed the gentleman, who went up to the third floor and entered a room comfortably furnished, but without taste or style or harmony; the bed was mahogany, the bureau oak, and the chairs walnut; the bed curtains were modern in style; but there were curtains at the windows which were suitable for a peasant’s cottage at best; in short, all the articles of furniture seemed to swear at finding themselves together, and the occupant of the room also made a wry face at finding himself surrounded by such things.

“Well, what do you say to this? It is magnificent, isn’t it?”

Chicotin shook his head as he replied:

“Well! it isn’t bad, but I’ve seen better.”

“Good! I am very glad to see that you know a thing or two! The fact is that this house is furnished in the most wretched fashion! I have no idea where they could have picked up all this stuff; a second-hand dealer would never recognize himself here; and when one has lived a long while at the Hôtel Meurice, one finds a terrible difference! But still one resigns oneself to it, when one cannot do otherwise. Wait while I write a line; then you will carry my letter and this bouquet. Just pull that bell over there.”

Chicotin pulled the bell; a maid-servant, covered with a layer of dust from top to toe, answered the summons and said:

“What does monsieur want?”

“Light to seal a letter, for there is nothing here! not a candle on the mantelpiece, no sealing wax on this desk—if that’s what you call it.”

“But there’s wafers in the box where the night light is. Look, monsieur.”

The girl left the room grumbling. The gentleman moved his chair to the desk and began to write, swearing at the paper, the pens and the sand.

The maid returned, bringing a copper candlestick, with a tallow candle lighted, and a stick of wax, which she placed on the desk.

“As for a seal,” she said, “madame says that she ain’t got any, but that a big sou will do just as well.”

“What’s this you have brought me?” cried the gentleman, pushing the candle away in disgust. “Ah! what an outrage!”

“What’s that? an outrage! I’ve brought what you ordered.”

“You dare to bring me a tallow candle—for this certainly is tallow, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s a tallow candle, as you want to use sealing wax.”

“But a wax candle is what you ought to bring; as if one could use anything else! Since when has it been permissible to offer tenants a tallow candle? What do you take me for, my dear?”

“Your dear! Why, monsieur, I take you—I mean I don’t take you at all; I bring you the best that I could find; there ain’t no wax candle that’s been used, and madame said that this was good enough to light your wax.”

“And this place dares to call itself a hotel! There are furnished lodgings for masons here, and nothing else!”

“Take that candle away, I say. Pouah! how it smells! Let’s make haste.”

He sealed his letter, using a topaz set in a ring, which he wore as a charm on his watch chain; then he dismissed the maid, who muttered as she left the room:

“What airs he puts on! If he was a pacha, he couldn’t put on any more. Why don’t he have a hotel of his own?”

“Here, my boy,” said the gentleman, when he had written the address on his letter, “take this note and this bouquet, which I stole from those gentlemen for the pleasure of playing a trick on them, for I hadn’t the slightest idea of buying a bouquet. But since I have it, I must make some use of it, and I am not sorry to show myself a gallant once more. So you will carry this bouquet and this letter to this address. Can you read?”

“Yes, monsieur, a little—print; but as for hand-writing——”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“You remember the lady’s name?”

“Baronne de Grangeville, 27 Rue de Provence.”

“That’s right; now be off, and hurry back.—By the way, if before admitting you, they should ask you from whom you come, you will reply that you come from Monsieur de Roncherolle.”

“Monsieur de Roncherolle; very good, monsieur.”

Chicotin took his leave. Thereupon, Monsieur de Roncherolle,—for now we know that that was the gouty gentleman’s name,—placed his diseased foot on one of the chairs covered with cotton, then stretched himself in the easy-chair, rested his head against the back, and with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, reflected thus:

Monsieur de Roncherolle fell asleep, dreaming of his past. It is what a man usually does who is on the decline, whereas in youth he dreams of the future.

Chicotin’s shrill voice woke the ex-gallant abruptly, and he opened his eyes, muttering:

“Here it is, monsieur.”

As he spoke, Chicotin held out the note and the bouquet, which he still had in his hands.

“What! you have brought them both back? She refused my bouquet and my letter?”

“Why, no, monsieur, the lady did not refuse anything, because I didn’t find her; she has moved!”

“Pardieu! I thought you were cleverer than this, my boy! Because a person has changed her lodgings, you can’t find her! There’s a sharp messenger for you!”

Monsieur de Roncherolle took the articles which Chicotin handed him. He tore up the letter, muttering:

“No, so long as you didn’t find the scent. Hum! more of the ill effects of time. I come back, and I find nobody left: some are dead; others have disappeared. Ah! it’s foolish to travel; or if one must travel, one should do like the Wandering Jew: keep going all the time, and never stop. But the Wandering Jew didn’t have the gout.—Here, my boy, this is for your commission.”

Monsieur de Roncherolle paid the messenger handsomely, because the man who has always borne himself like a gentleman retains the habit of making a show of generosity, even when his means allow him no longer to be generous; and sometimes imposes great privations upon himself in order to enjoy the pleasure of throwing money out of the window.

“Then monsieur has no further need of my services?” said Chicotin, his appetite whetted by the fee he had received for his errand.

“All right, master. I’ll look, I’ll ask questions, and I shall end by finding her. I go into every corner of Paris, you know; but perhaps it will take rather a long time. However, as soon as I find out anything, I’ll come to tell you.”

When Chicotin had gone, Monsieur de Roncherolle, whose face had assumed a melancholy expression, looked at the bouquet which he still held, muttering: