At Mademoiselle Bocal's wedding feast, punch, mulled wine, and bischoff were circulating all the time, and the ladies partook of that species of refreshment as often as the men. From this fact it will be understood that at the Bocal ball there was an enthusiasm which threatened to develop into wild revelry. Most of the ladies were as red as poppies; some of them laughed incessantly; others, who were presumably very sentimental in their cups, rolled their eyes in a languishing way that drove you back to your entrenchments; others, whom the punch made melancholy, heaved prodigious sighs and were damp about the eyes.

As for the men, they were almost all loquacious and noisy, and I believe that I might safely say, tipsy.

When I entered the ballroom the second time, I looked about for Balloquet. I discovered him sitting beside a brunette with a headdress of roses, whose cheeks were of a brilliancy and lustre that dimmed the hue of the flowers. Their conversation was so animated that the young doctor in embryo—for to that class Balloquet belonged—did not notice me, although I had planted myself directly in front of him.

I concluded to tap him on the shoulder.

"Monsieur Balloquet," said I, "I would be glad to say a word to you, if possible."

"It isn't possible at this moment. I am engaged. I am explaining to mademoiselle the proper method of applying leeches."

And Balloquet gave me a meaning glance. I understood that his interview had reached an interesting point, and I was about to walk away, when I felt a hand on my arm. It was the little marionette named Ravinet, who was trying to make fast to me, and shouting—for everybody in the room shouted instead of speaking:

"Ah! you're one of the landlord's guests; I recognize you. You're the man who polks so well! It's very polite of you to come back to us. You'll polk again, won't you? If you want to please Aunt Chalumeau, you'll invite her; poor, dear woman, she's never polked in her life, and she's dying to. Her hair dresser told her she had the right make-up."

I had no inclination whatever to put Aunt Chalumeau's make-up to the test, and I told Cousin Ravinet, who struck me as being well primed, and persisted in hanging on my arm:

"I will tell you in confidence that I shall not polk again for some time; I am very tired."

"Oh! that's a pity. Do you belong to the OpÉra?"

"I? No, indeed!"

"Are you related to my cousin's landlord?"

"No; I am a friend of his."

"And that lady who was dancing with you don't belong to the OpÉra, either?"

"By no means."

"We all thought you did. You jigged it so well!"

"Monsieur Ravinet——"

"Ah! you know my name!"

"I have that honor. Do me the favor to tell me what Monsieur Bocal's business is."

"What's that! don't you know my cousin?"

"I know that he's the bride's father, and that he's Monsieur Guillardin's tenant; that's all."

"What! you don't know Bocal the distiller's shop, on Rue Montmartre? He's one of the largest distillers in Paris."

"Ah! he's a distiller, is he?"

"Why, everybody knows him!"

"I must tell you that I very rarely have dealings with distillers."

"He's the man who makes the syrup of punch—that's a famous brew! Did you ever drink it?"

"No; and I am not anxious to."

"Oh! you must take some, and tell us what you think of it.—Come here quick, Cousin Bocal! I say! here's a gentleman from your landlord's party; he's never tasted your punch."

The stout man with the glassy eyes stopped at Cousin Ravinet's summons; then he came to me and gripped my other arm, saying with an effusiveness that scorched my cheeks, for he had the unpleasant habit of speaking within an inch of your nose:

"Ah! monsieur, you're one of my landlord's guests. Surely you won't insult me by joining us without taking something?—Here, waiter!"

"You are too good, Monsieur Bocal, but——"

"The punch is made with my syrup; it's perfumed, and sweetens your breath."

"That is what I was just saying to monsieur, cousin——"

"I say there! waiter!"

"Waiter! bring some punch! My cousin is calling you!"

Cousin Ravinet was determined to do his part. The two men held me so that I could not escape. A waiter arrived with a salver. I realized that I should get into serious difficulty if I refused; it would be quite likely to draw down upon me the wrath of Madame Girie, whom I spied in a corner, whispering with some other women. So I swallowed the glass of punch, hoping that I should be set free; but I was disappointed. Monsieur Bocal led me away toward his daughter PÉtronille, saying:

"You must dance with the bride."

"It's a very great honor, but——"

"Oh! you must dance with her. My landlord refused to dance, but he's an elderly man. But a famous dancer, a zephyr, like you, can't refuse."

I did not know how to evade the honors with which I was overwhelmed. Monsieur Bocal had already said to his daughter:

"PÉtronille, you're going to dance with monsieur—my landlord's friend."

"But, papa, I am going to dance with Freluchon."

"What do I care for Freluchon! I tell you, PÉtronille, you're going to dance with monsieur; and you'll see how he dances. All you've got to do is stand straight——"

"But I promised poor Freluchon two hours ago, and he's gone to wash his hands on purpose, because he's lost his gloves; he'll be mad."

"For heaven's sake, Monsieur Bocal," said I, "don't let me interfere with your daughter's plans! I will dance with her later; I should be very sorry to offend anyone."

"On the contrary, monsieur, it will give me much pleasure," said Bocal. "I don't care a snap of my finger whether Freluchon's angry or not. The idea of putting ourselves out for him! Not much! You shall dance this dance with the bride. Hark! there goes the orchestra; take your places quick!"

Escape was impossible. What had I tumbled into? Those people were as obstinate as mules, and a refusal on my part would irritate them; people of little education are always extremely sensitive with fashionable persons, for they feel their inferiority; they are afraid of being laughed at, when no one has any idea of laughing at them.

I made the best of it and took my place beside the bride, who did not act as if she were overjoyed to dance with me and probably regretted Freluchon.

"Who's going to dance opposite the bride?" shouted Monsieur Bocal, in stentorian tones.

"I am! I am! here I am!"

And a tall, thin, bald-headed old man appeared, leading by the hand a girl of seven or eight. There was a vÎs-À-vÎs which would not afford me any distraction! I heard a muttering behind me, then groans, then Monsieur Bocal's voice above all the rest. It was probably Monsieur Freluchon, indignant to find that he had washed his hands for nothing.

The quadrille began. The bride went into it with all her heart; she was a buxom wench, who had made up her mind to let herself go on her wedding day, and was determined to do what she had set out to do. If only I did not get in the way of her feet, I felt that I should be lucky. The tall old man, who stood opposite her, danced with a zeal deserving of the greatest praise; he persisted in taking all the little steps and even essayed some leaps and bounds; the perspiration rolled down his face after the second figure, but he did not omit a step. He was a conscientious dancer, and would have been in great demand under the Empire. The little girl hopped about in every direction, and made a mess of every figure; she was always behind me when she should have been in front; but I was indifferent and let her wander about at her pleasure.

I was convinced that Cousin Ravinet had spread the information that I was a famous dancer, for there was a crowd about our set. The good people must have been sadly disappointed, as I did nothing but walk through the figures. Indeed, I heard some voices muttering:

"Bah! it wasn't worth while to put ourselves out; I can dance better than that. Ravinet must have seen double; he don't even know how to do the basque step!"

I felt called upon to try to talk with the bride.

"You must be tired, madame?"

"Tired? why?"

"You have probably been dancing a long while."

"Dame! if the bride didn't dance, it would be a pretty wedding! The men have to ask me to dance; that's what they were invited for."

I bit my lip, as I rejoined:

"This is a very happy day for you, madame, is it not?"

"A happy day! Oh! it's rather amusing just now; but I've found it pretty stupid all day!"

"Ah! is that so? But I presume that you love the man you have married?"

"Oh, yes! well enough, as far as that goes; not too much; but it'll come; pa said it would come."

"Would it be impertinent of me to ask what your husband's business is?"

"My husband's? He sells sponges, at wholesale; we're going to keep a sponge shop."

"That must be a good business."

"Dame! I don't know anything about it. I shan't like it very much to be among sponges all the time. But we won't have any dog, anyway; that was one of the first conditions I made."

"Ah! you don't want a dog; I judge that you dislike dogs?"

"Mon Dieu! no, I like all kinds of animals. But it's on account of the song."

"Ah! is there a song about dogs?"

"About the Sponge Man's Dog! Don't you know that song?"

"No; I must admit that it is entirely unknown to me."

"It's a comic song; every verse ends like this: 'And it was the sponge man's dog.'—Everybody knows that refrain, and pa says to Pamphile: 'If you had a dog, people would always sing that song when they saw him. That might injure your business.'—And Pamphile says: 'I'll never have a dog, I swear,' and I married him. Pa did well, didn't he?"

"I admire Monsieur Bocal's foresight."

"He insisted, too, that my mother-in-law shouldn't live with us."

"In that respect I applaud him; for mothers-in-law seldom agree with their daughters-in-law."

"Especially as Madame Girie—— Why, she's a woman that would set mountains to fighting if she could; and yet, she says she adores her children! it's amazing how happy they've been with her! Pamphile's younger brother was very delicate, so she said; she insisted on his purging himself all the time, taking cathartics and enemas. When he came home at night after dining out, Madame Girie was always waiting for him on the stairs, with a syringe. If he refused to have an enema, she'd chase him through all the rooms. The next day, she'd purge him without telling him, by putting something in his coffee. In fact, she pestered the poor boy so with what she called her little attentions, that one fine morning he went off and enlisted in the dragoons; he preferred that to being syringed."

"Faith! I believe that I would have done the same if I had been in his place."

"Madame Girie said he was an ingrate. She didn't want her other son, Pamphile, to marry, so's he could stay with her. You can see that that prospect didn't tempt him, especially as Madame Girie wanted to run the business, and as she found a way to quarrel with all the customers. One day, she refused to sell a man sponges, because he didn't bow to her when he came in; another time, it was a woman who spoke to her as if she was a servant. In fact, if she'd stayed with Pamphile a while longer, it would have been all up with his business; for no one would come there to buy. Well! here we are married. We make Madame Girie an allowance, but it won't be enough for her, you see! she's never had any idea how to take care of money, she always runs right through it.—Ah! it's our turn, monsieur; this is the poule."

When the poule figure was at an end, the bride said to me, with an ironical air:

"It don't seem to me that there's any need of my holding myself so straight to dance with you. They said you were such a fine dancer!"

"Cousin Ravinet was mistaken, madame, in saying that I danced well."

"Oh! as to that, if you were dancing with the lady you had a little while ago, you'd jump higher, I suppose."

"I beg you to believe that no partner could induce me to jump any higher."

"Freluchon dances mighty well, I tell you; he bounds like a rubber ball."

"That is a gift of nature, and I would not contend with the gentleman. Is he a relation of yours?"

"Freluchon? No; he's head salesman in pa's shop. He cried when he heard I was going to be married."

"The deuce! was it with pleasure?"

"Well, I guess not! it was with something else. But I consoled him; I told him I'd be his friend as long as we live, and that he could kiss me every Sunday."

"I can imagine, madame, that such a prospect dried his tears."

"It's our turn! it's our turn!"

The quadrille was over at last. I escorted the bride to her place, and dodged the glasses of mulled wine that were circulating in all directions. Someone seized my arm; I jumped back in dismay, fearing that it was either Monsieur Bocal again or little Ravinet.

But it was Balloquet, who led me to a corner of the room, where we sat down upon an unoccupied bench. My medical friend seemed to be in very high spirits. He began to laugh before he spoke to me.

"Well! my dear Rochebrune, I should say that we had succeeded in our undertakings, eh? What an excellent idea it was of mine, that we should join these wedding parties!"

"True; but suppose I hadn't appeared with Monsieur Bocal's landlord—what then? It seems to me that you were in for a bad quarter of an hour! What the devil had you been doing?"

"Nothing; it was just a joke. The little woman I was talking with just now had excited me; and then, the way they drink here is something terrific. Faith! while I was dancing with the bride, my hand went astray. That idiot of a Pamphile did nothing but say to us: 'I've married an apple! My wife's as solid as one!' And I just wanted to see if it was true. I give you my word that he flatters himself. But that's all gone by now; the husband adores me. What do you think of this party?"

"I prefer the one I belong to."

"How did you arrange your affair?"

"I was sorely embarrassed; but two charming women took me under their protection. Afterward, I found a gentleman there who knew me. But, for all that, my dear Balloquet, don't be imprudent enough to come into the other ballroom. The company is very different from this; you might be questioned, and——"

"Never fear; I'm very well off here, and I shall stay. In the first place, there's to be a supper, and I have always had a weakness for that sort of amusement. And, secondly, I have my hands full: I am at work on a brunette—the one I was colloguing with just now. I like her immensely; I propose to give her my custom. She's a Madame SatinÉ, Boulevard des Italiens; a fashionable quarter, where gloves are very dear. She says she's a widow; all the attractions at once. She's no light-footed nymph, but good, solid flesh and blood, and no prude, either. We dine together to-morrow; that's already arranged."

"I congratulate you; you do business promptly."

"And you—have you found anything to make it worth your while?"

"I have made the acquaintance of a charming woman; but I don't know yet whether it will go any further."

"The one who came here with you?"

"No; that was my second protectress."

"Do you know that she has a regular—military air. Bigre! how she looked at me!"

"Yes, there is a touch of decision in her manners. She is clever and original; but she's not the one I am making up to."

"I say! who in the devil is this old woman standing in front of us and making faces?"

I looked up and recognized Madame Girie, who had halted in front of Balloquet and myself and had her eyes fixed upon us, raising her eyebrows, smiling—in a word, indulging in a pantomime which was certainly intended to compel us to speak to her.

There was no way of escaping her; for, as soon as I raised my eyes, Madame Girie made a minuet courtesy and stepped forward, saying in a tone in which she clearly intended to announce the mistress of the feast:

"Have you had some punch, monsieur, or some bischoff? Have you taken anything?"

"Yes, madame; I am infinitely obliged to you, I have taken many things."

"You see, Monsieur Bocal is so heedless! He talks a great deal and makes a lot of noise, and acts as if he wanted to manage everything; but, as a matter of fact, he don't do anything at all; and if I wasn't here to look after things—— I am the bridegroom's mother, monsieur."

"You are quite capable of being, madame," said Balloquet, rising and bowing to Madame Girie; then he walked away and left me to my fate. I would have been glad to follow Balloquet's example; but Madame Girie at once took his seat by my side and seemed disposed to remain there. I felt a cold perspiration break out all over me. The bridegroom's mother turned toward me and continued the conversation:

"Yes, monsieur, I am the bridegroom's mother. That magnificent boy is my son; he looks like me, don't he, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame; he has your expression."

"My expression—that's it exactly; you've struck it! He wanted to marry. I wanted to be everything to him. 'Stay with your mother,' I says; 'you'll be much happier! What more do you need?'"

"But, madame, it seems to me that a mother can hardly take the place of a wife; and I imagined that a mother's greatest happiness was to live again in her grandchildren."

Madame Girie took from her pocket a handkerchief redolent of snuff, and rejoined:

"Oh! certainly, monsieur, a man can marry; but he'd ought to make a good choice, and that's so hard!"

"Do you mean that you are not satisfied with the choice your son has made?"

"Hum! hum! I don't want to speak unkind of my daughter-in-law, monsieur; I ain't capable of it; but if I was inclined to! In the first place, she's as stupid as a pot, that little PÉtronille is. But you've been dancing with her, and you must have found it out."

"Why, no, madame; I found her naÏve and natural."

"Ha! ha! silly [niaise] enough, ain't she? You're frank, you are! However, Pamphile was cracked over her, and I don't know why; for she ain't pretty."

"She's very fresh."

"Dame! if a girl wasn't fresh at her age! But she's running to fat, and I won't give her three years before she's a sight. And then, she's been brought up in such a curious way! Having no mother, she's done just as she chose, you see. Alone all day long with the clerks; young men, too—I actually believe she went down into the cellar with 'em! Fie! fie! what actions! catch me choosing that hussy for my son's wife! But he wouldn't listen to me, when I says to him: 'You'll repent of your bargain.'—You just wait a little while, monsieur, and you'll see. There's a certain Freluchon,—one of Monsieur Bocal's clerks,—who was dead in love with PÉtronille. Everybody knows that; why, she didn't conceal it herself, but just laughed about it!—a modest girl doesn't laugh at such a thing.—This Freluchon taught her to swim—do you hear, monsieur?—to swim, in the river; she went into deep water with him! Fine doings! And Pamphile thinks that's all right. 'Look out what you're doing!' I says to him.—Oh, monsieur! what fools men are when they're in love!"

"That is a profound truth, madame; but it does little honor to your sex; if women really were what men suppose them to be when they're in love, men wouldn't be such fools to love them."

Madame Girie pursed up her lips, shook her head, and smiled, as she said:

"Thank God! all women ain't PÉtronilles!"

"And all mothers-in-law aren't like you, madame!"

I don't know whether Madame Girie took that for a compliment, but she bowed low. For my part, I had had quite enough of the excellent dame's chatter, so I left my seat and the ballroom, where the odor of mulled wine and punch was beginning to be insufferable.