At ten o'clock, Monsieur MonlÉard's magnificent salons were resplendent with light, flowers, and new draperies, arranged with an artistic skill which did honor to the taste of the organizer of the festivity. At eleven, the guests arrived in swarms. The ladies were superbly dressed, and the flashing of their diamonds dazzled the eye; some—but by no means the larger number—were more simply attired, and were content to attract by the charms of their persons alone. The men admired the beautiful dresses, but preferred to linger by those whose attractions depended less upon their costumes. A fine orchestra played quadrilles, polkas, mazurkas. Its strains seemed to enliven the faces of the guests, which fairly beamed with pleasure—the pleasure which they already enjoyed, and that to which they looked forward: the latter is always the more agreeable.

At midnight, the number of guests was already so great that it was becoming very difficult to pass from one room into another. To do so required an amount of persevering effort which many of the ladies did not choose to put forth, and which, indeed, the enormous dimensions of their skirts made almost impossible.

The ball was at its height. The queen of the fÊte did the honors with much grace, and everybody agreed in voting her charming. Fanny was, in very truth, most bewitchingly and becomingly dressed; her white moire gown, albeit not overladen with trimming, was studded with bunches of real flowers, and in her hair there were no jewels save a cluster of diamonds; but the satisfaction which her vanity experienced in the giving of such a fÊte imparted to her eyes an unusual brilliancy, to her smile more expression, to her voice more feeling. She was surrounded by men who contended for the honor of dancing a polka or a quadrille with her, and everyone envied the lucky mortal who was her partner for the time being, especially as she was a beautiful dancer; she was as light as a feather, and her feet seemed hardly to touch the floor.

Auguste MonlÉard was very far from displaying the same glee and satisfaction which were so apparent on his wife's features; he did the honors of his salons with the exquisite courtesy and refinement of a man in the best society, who is accustomed to party-giving; but there was in his smile a something forced and constrained, which was better adapted to freeze than to provoke gayety; at times, too, a dark cloud passed over his forehead, his eyebrows contracted, his lips tightened, and he seemed utterly oblivious to what was being said to him. But these periods of distraction lasted but a moment. Auguste would suddenly come to himself and struggle to assume a cheerful aspect.

Adolphine, who came early with her father, did not dazzle the beholder by the splendor of her costume; but she was charming by virtue of her natural grace of manner, her perfect figure, the sweet expression of her lovely eyes, and perhaps, too, by virtue of a touch of melancholy, which she strove to overcome, but which added to the charm of her face.

Monsieur Batonnin did not fail to be on hand when the leader of the orchestra gave the signal for the dancing to begin, and the girl had no choice but to accept him for her partner; indeed, it mattered little to her with whom she danced; what she would have liked would have been not to dance at all; but, as she was the hostess's sister, that was impossible; too many people would have inquired the reason for her abstinence, and it would have worried her father and annoyed her sister. On the contrary, she felt that she must act as if she were enjoying herself hugely, and that was very difficult; we can do many things to oblige another, but the eyes never have complaisance enough to hide thoroughly our real feelings.

While dancing with Adolphine, Monsieur Batonnin did not fail to overwhelm her with compliments, scattered among his remarks upon the party.

"It's magnificent! it's enchanting! it's delightful! How elegantly these salons are decorated! and with such taste! Flowers everywhere—to say nothing of those who are dancing; for women and flowers, you know, are very much alike. Others have said that before me, to be sure; but there are things that can't be repeated too often. It must have cost a lot—to give a party like this! but then, when one has the means! Monsieur MonlÉard doesn't look as cheerful as his wife does; he doesn't seem to be dancing. Still, a host can't dance all the time. I don't suppose he's sick, although he is very pale; but he's almost always pale."

To all this Adolphine replied only by monosyllables, and the gentleman with the doll's face said to himself after the quadrille:

"That young lady is just about as cheerful as her brother-in-law; it's of no use for Papa Gerbault to tell me that that young man I saw there this morning was in love with her sister; that wouldn't make this one cry. There's something else—yes, there certainly is something else."

In a salon set aside for card-players, Messieurs Clairval and Gerbault and young Anatole de Raincy met.

"How's this? you are not dancing?" they said to the last named.

"Oh! dear me, no! I wath never mad over danthing," replied the young dandy, looking at himself in a mirror; "and there'th thuch a crowd! How can one expect to do anything? When I danth, I like to let mythelf go."

"Do you mean that you dance the cancan, De Raincy?" queried a young man with a jovial face, putting his hand on Anatole's shoulder.

"How thtupid you are, Vauflers! Jutht becauth I like to put a little grath into my danthing, it dothn't follow that I danth the cancan."

"Well, you see, I don't dance half lying down, as you do."

"In the firtht plath, I thtoop, not lie down—a very different thing. You ought to know that, to danth properly, you mutht thtoop a little. I learned that from a great danther."

"From Vestris?"

"You tire me! Ever thinth thith fellow hath been eighth clerk to a broker, he maketh fun of everybody."

"What news from the Bourse to-night?" said MonlÉard, accosting the young man whom Anatole had called Vauflers.

"You know that several firms were sold out this morning. I believe that we haven't seen the end yet. There's need of a thorough weeding-out. There are some fellows who have been playing too high for a long time."

Auguste pressed his lips together and walked away.

"Shan't we have a game of bouillotte?" said the young man.

"Bouillotte ith bad form jutht now, my dear fellow; nobody playth it," replied tall Anatole, gazing admiringly at his gloves.

"BÉzique's the proper thing, I suppose?"

"No, lanthquenet thtill."

"Ah, yes! because you can ruin yourself faster at that. Thanks! I think I'll go and dance. I asked the hostess for a dance, and she put my name down; but I was twenty-first on the list."

"In that cath, your turn will come by to-morrow night."

"Oh! Madame MonlÉard will make an exception in my favor."

"Why tho, pray?"

"Because I am her broker."

"Oho! do you mean that Madame MonlÉard gambleth on the Bourth?"

"Why, yes—moderately; but she's luckier than her husband."

"Tho he hath been lothing, hath he?"

"I should say so!—immense sums, of late. Indeed, I will admit that I was much surprised at his giving a party—although, to be sure, that is sometimes an excellent way of deceiving people as to one's position and retaining one's credit."

"The deuth! what are you talking about?"

"At this moment, I have an idea that he is staking all to win all, as they say, on a certain deal; but if he loses——"

"Look out! here comth hith father-in-law. Come thith way."

The two young men, arm in arm, walked into another room.

"Mon Dieu! how beautifully your wife dances!" said Batonnin to MonlÉard, as Fanny whirled by them, dancing the mazurka with a partner who guided her perfectly and executed some novel steps.

"What! did you say that it's too warm here?"

"No, I never complain of the heat; I'm a genuine African in that respect. I was admiring Madame MonlÉard's dancing—she's dancing the mazurka at this moment; there they go again! I must say that she has a partner who does himself credit, too; he holds her so firmly, and she trusts herself to his guidance with such abandon! a very pretty fellow that! What is his name? By the way—what! he has gone, and without answering my question! Hum! They may say what they choose, but Monsieur MonlÉard isn't in his usual form to-night; he's too preoccupied, too distraught. It's a good thing that that doesn't keep his wife from dancing."

About two o'clock, the ladies were invited to repair to a table laden with a magnificent supper; as the company was so large that all could not sup at once, the ladies took their turn first, and the men waited until they had finished, except a few impatient individuals, such as one sees at almost all balls, who found a way to squeeze in at the table with the ladies, where, on the pretext of waiting on them, they did not fail to help themselves abundantly to everything that was most delicate and appetizing. Indeed, it not infrequently happens that, after they have laid hands upon everything within reach, and eaten uninterruptedly, while most of the ladies have done nothing but talk, these same gallant creatures return to the supper table with the men, and fall to anew, as if they had eaten nothing. There are some worthies capable of that; we ourselves have seen it done.

Monsieur Batonnin tried to find a seat at the ladies' table, but, despite his everlasting smile, no one would make room for him. So he decided to remain standing, and naturally stationed himself behind Adolphine, whom he pestered with attentions; for Adolphine had no appetite, and refused almost everything which he ordered for her, and which he did not fail to obtain at once by saying:

"It's for the sister of Madame MonlÉard, the queen of the fÊte."

With these magic words, Batonnin was quite sure to obtain all that he could possibly want; but if his courtesy was absolutely wasted, it was not so with the dishes which were refused; for when Adolphine said: "Thanks, monsieur; but I will not eat anything," the soft-spoken gentleman invariably adjudged what happened to be on the plate to himself, saying:

"Well, since you don't care for it, faith! I'll eat it myself."

And, thanks to this clever management, he supped quite as well as, perhaps better than, if he had had a seat among the ladies. To be sure, he had to eat standing.

When the ladies had left the table, and the men came to take their places, Monsieur Batonnin, whether by accident or from absent-mindedness, imitating the worthies of whom we spoke a moment ago, found himself seated beside Monsieur Clairval.

"What! eating another supper?" queried the latter.

"Why another? I haven't supped yet."

"But, unless I am very much mistaken, when I looked in just now to admire the charming picture presented by all the ladies seated at the table, you were behind Mademoiselle Adolphine, with a plate in your hand, and eating what was on the plate."

"That is to say, I was standing behind Mademoiselle Adolphine to wait upon her, and I passed her whatever she wanted."

"I saw that you were eating all the time."

"Tasting, perhaps, but if you call that eating! And then, I was standing up. What one eats standing never counts."

"Well, my dear Monsieur Batonnin, I don't undertake to reprove you for it; on the contrary, you deserve to be congratulated.—Honor to great talents of all varieties! A good stomach is a blessing of Providence. The wealthiest of men, if his liver doesn't work right, is, to my mind, less to be envied than the poor man who can readily digest his bacon-rind and similar delicacies."

Auguste MonlÉard joined his male guests at supper, to do the honors of his table; he began by pouring down several glasses of champagne; then, like one who is determined to divert his thoughts at any cost, he drank glass after glass of different kinds of wine, in rapid succession. This manoeuvre succeeded; in a quarter of an hour his brow had cleared, his eyes sparkled; he talked with all his guests, and challenged them to drink with him; in fact, he was almost gay, and he laughed—a laugh that was a little nervous, a little forced, perhaps, but which produced a most excellent effect toward the end of the supper. When the gentlemen finally left the table, at which they had made quite an extended sojourn, they did not fail to call for a cotillon, the dance which has become almost the obligatory conclusion of a ball; and Auguste MonlÉard proposed to lead it.

The suggestion was received with delight by the dancing contingent. Adolphine, greatly surprised by the animation now exhibited by her brother-in-law, mentioned it to her sister.

"Your husband seems to be in high spirits now," she said; "and I am very glad to see him so."

"Why! did you think that he wasn't in good spirits before?" rejoined Fanny. "You are wrong, my dear girl! Auguste always enjoys himself—only, he doesn't look as if he did; that's his way."

The cotillon came to an end, and the tired dancers began at last to think of retiring. Batonnin, having supped satisfactorily twice over, left the house with Anatole de Raincy, humming:

"'La belle nuit! la belle fÊte!'"

"I know that! it ith from a comic opera," said the tall young man.

"True; but you must agree that it's apropos: la belle fÊte!"

"Yeth, but I'm afraid—according to what Vauflers thaid——"

"What did he say?"

"That Augutht MonlÉard had lotht enormouth thumth on the Bourth of late, and that he mutht be in a very bad way."

"Ah! the devil! that's why I found him so distraught, then. At supper, he drank a lot to forget himself, I noticed that."

"After all, he may pull up again—luck may turn. Ah! I thee a cab. Monthieur, I with you good-night, or rather good-day, for here'th the light."

"Your servant, monsieur."

Batonnin returned to his lodgings alone and on foot, saying to himself:

"Well, whether MonlÉard is ruined or not, I had two suppers, all the same!"

Our friends and acquaintances almost always welcome our misfortunes in such wise.