The guests were not in that vivacious frame of mind which generally signalizes the end of a dinner. To be sure, they had not had much to warm them up; the vin ordinaire was watered, the champagne resembled vinegar; the claret alone had made a success, but two bottles were a very small allowance for eleven people, especially when one of them appropriated half of it.

Madame Trichon was still brooding over the blow from a fork on her chin, and from a chair on her head. Monsieur Brid'oison was sulking because his son had been called a blackguard; his wife continued to swallow her hair; Madame Putiphar and Aldegonde were disturbed by the Italian count's silence with Juliette; the last-named alone was in a charming mood, and was ably seconded by Dodichet, who, from time to time, hid his face in order to laugh at MiflorÈs.

The coffee had just been brought, and Aldegonde was filling the cups, when Monsieur Brid'oison offered Monsieur Mirotaine his snuffbox, saying:

"Try this, and tell me what you think of it."

"Why, you know perfectly well that I don't take snuff."

"This brand is well worth departing from your habit."

Monsieur Mirotaine took a pinch and stuffed it into his nose, with a sign of approbation. But the pungent powder soon produced its inevitable effect upon one who was unaccustomed to its use: Monsieur Mirotaine sneezed twice in rapid succession, and the second time the effect was of such a nature that he was obliged to resort to his handkerchief in hot haste, in order to wipe his nose. So he thrust his hand hurriedly into his pocket, and pulled out his handkerchief so quickly that with it he sent pickles, radishes, and onions flying about the room.

Everybody was dumfounded; they gazed in amazement at the hors-d'oeuvre strewn about the floor and on the furniture. Madame Trichon alone uttered a cry of pain; the poor woman had no luck; she had received an onion in the eye, and, as it was pickled, it caused the delicate spot it had struck to smart vigorously.

"How is this, monsieur? is it possible that you put some of the hors-d'oeuvre in your pocket?" said Aldegonde. "And to think that I suspected poor Goth! Fie, monsieur, for shame! that is unpardonable!"

Instead of asking his wife's forgiveness, Monsieur Mirotaine was on his hands and knees, picking up the delicacies he had unwittingly taken from his pocket. As for Madame Trichon, she went off to weep by herself in a corner, declaring that there was a conspiracy to disfigure her.

While they were taking their coffee, Dodichet said to his friend:

"Come, MiflorÈs, for heaven's sake talk a little! try to make yourself agreeable to the ladies. You act like an oyster, my dear fellow."

"I didn't ask you to bring me here; it was you who insisted on my coming, saying that it would inspire confidence in the master of the house, with whom you hoped to do a big business."

"That is true, perfectly true; that is why I passed you off for an Italian count."

"Oh! I don't care about that."

"Lying a little more or less doesn't matter; and you are lying by calling yourself MiflorÈs, when your real name is Seringat; a pretty name, by the way, which reminds one of a canary [serin], a flower [syringa], and a syringe [seringue]. MiflorÈs isn't your name."

"It was my mother's, so I have a right to take it."

"At all events, you don't want these people to know your real name, and what happened to you, do you?"

"No, no! never! I would rather—I—don't know what."

"Well, I know the whole story."

"But you promised to keep it secret, my good, kind friend."

"Yes; but on condition that you'll be obliging, that you'll do everything for me that I ask you to do."

"That's agreed. Do you want more money? Tell me."

"Not now; but try to be amiable, amusing, polite, while you are here; that's all I ask of you at present."

"I will try right away."

Whereupon my gentleman went to the hostess, took her hand, and kissed it several times.

"What does that mean; does he expect to marry my wife?" thought Monsieur Mirotaine.

But Aldegonde did not find that pantomime unpleasant; she smiled at MiflorÈs, thinking that he was about to ask for her stepdaughter's hand; but he simply bowed and said:

"There's another pickle under that chair."

Monsieur CallÉ hastened to pick it up and carry it to Mirotaine, who put it in his pocket, saying to Monsieur CallÉ:

"You don't let things lie round; you'll make your way."

Dodichet tried hard to enliven the company, and to that end resorted frequently to the decanter containing brandy, the only liqueur that was offered the guests; he helped himself to several glasses, and even went so far as to offer some to the others. Monsieur Mirotaine witnessed this procedure with impatience.

"That fellow makes too free with my brandy," he muttered; "that's the third time he's gone back to it; he pours it out as if he were in his own house! Very bad manners, I call it! I must try to take the decanter away without my wife's seeing me."

The arrival of several of the guests invited for the evening enabled Monsieur Mirotaine to carry out his plan.

Goth announced "Mesdames Boulard," and three middle-aged women appeared, dressed with much coquetry, with little caps that hardly covered the tops of their heads, from beneath which escaped chignons resembling muffs. Their hoopskirts were so vast that the upper part of their bodies seemed to be poised on balloons; the door of the salon was scarcely wide enough to allow them to pass through.

At sight of this trio, who promised to occupy so much space in the salon, Dodichet said to Brid'oison:

"Your young Artaban ought to perform some of his gymnastics on those balloons, to flatten them out a little."

"You are right. The fact is that women are getting to be ridiculous! before long, one woman alone will fill a whole room! Just look at my wife—what a difference! I have forbidden her to wear hoops; so that she can go anywhere; she's a regular knitting needle."

After the Boulards came the brothers Bridoux. They did not assume to fill much space. They were blowing their noses when they came in, they continued to hold their noses when they bowed; and when they decided to release their hold, exhibited faces of that inane, expressionless type which we see everywhere, and with which we are not tempted to enter into conversation.

One of the Bridoux concealed himself behind the balloon of one of the Boulards. The other exclaimed:

"Why, I don't see Mirotaine; where in the world is our dear Mirotaine?"

Dear Mirotaine had gone to put his decanter of brandy in a safe place. Meanwhile, Madame Putiphar took Dodichet aside and said to him:

"Well, monsieur, how's our business coming on? How does monsieur le comte like our Juliette? he hasn't said a single pleasant word to her. What does it mean? don't she take his fancy? We must know what to expect, you see."

"Don't you be alarmed, Madame de la Toilette; my friend is delighted with your young lady; he finds her full of intellect and altogether to his taste."

"How can he judge her intellect? he hasn't opened his mouth to her!"

"No; but he has heard her talk, which amounts to the same thing. Indeed, she passed him a dish several times and said: 'Will you have some of this, monsieur?'—And the way she said those simple words enabled him to detect her merit."

"Well, when will your count make his proposal?"

"To-morrow, probably; you can understand that he isn't likely to do it to-night, before all these people."

"Then I can tell Monsieur Mirotaine that, and begin to look after the wedding presents?"

"You must look after them at the earliest possible moment, and see that they are worthy of a sultan."

The Putiphar woman walked away, delighted, and was on the point of repeating this conversation to Aldegonde, when Monsieur DubottÉ and his wife were announced.

Madame ÉlÉonore DubottÉ was a short, plump woman of twenty-five, fair-haired and white-skinned, with a round, fresh face, and exceedingly tender blue eyes, which were fixed upon her husband almost all the time. You will remember that he complained of being loved too well by his wife.

DubottÉ went to pay his respects to Aldegonde, having with much difficulty induced his wife to release his arm. Then he shook hands with Mirotaine, who had reappeared without his decanter, and who seemed much flattered because DubottÉ had at last accepted an invitation to his house.

But, at sight of DubottÉ, Dodichet had made a most amusing grimace.

"The deuce!" he murmured; "here's a contretemps I didn't expect. But, damn the odds! Phoebus has a very nice little wife; I must pay my court to her. Let's get over the recognition."

He went straight up to DubottÉ, who was already making eyes at Aldegonde, and cried:

"Halloo! DubottÉ, my dear old friend! By Jove! what a pleasant surprise! How are you, DubottÉ? is this your good wife you have brought with you? Pray present me to her, my dear friend, so that I may congratulate her on her husband."

PhilÉmon DubottÉ uttered an exclamation of surprise when he recognized Dodichet, who had already seized his hand and was shaking it violently.

"By what chance are you here?" he asked.—"How did you ever come to know this scamp of a Dodichet, my dear Mirotaine?"

"What's that? Scamp? I advise you to talk, my fair-haired Phoebus! If your wife wasn't here, I could tell some fine tales about you!"

Monsieur Mirotaine glanced from one to the other of the two friends with a disturbed expression, and seemed to be waiting for DubottÉ to explain himself more definitely concerning the so-called commission merchant in sugar, whose free and easy manners were not at all agreeable to him. But PhilÉmon suddenly spied between two hoopskirts the gentleman who had been introduced as a wealthy Italian count. He rushed up to him, crying:

"Well, well! I seem to be in a land of old acquaintances! Here's Monsieur Seringat the druggist, too, whom I had the pleasure of seeing at Pontoise a year ago.—Good-evening, Monsieur Seringat! how is your charming wife?"

When he heard himself called by his real name, Seringat turned pale, then purple; he put his hand to his head with a despairing gesture, and said in a faltering voice:

"No, that isn't true. I am MiflorÈs; I don't want to be anything but MiflorÈs! Let me alone; I don't know you!"

With that, he pushed aside the two balloons that encompassed him, as well as all the people who happened to be in his path, hurried from the salon, seized the first hat he saw in the reception-room, and disappeared, leaving the whole party speechless with surprise, except Dodichet, who dropped into a chair and laughed heartily at the effect of that recognition.

Monsieur Mirotaine was the first who recovered the use of his tongue.

"What does this mean?" he cried. "What! this man who was introduced to me as a wealthy Italian count, who was looking for a young lady without a dowry to marry, is a druggist from Pontoise, and married already? Why, then, I have been made a fool of! There has been an attempt to cheat me!—Answer, monsieur the commission merchant in sugar, and you, Madame Putiphar, who undertake to arrange marriages! What have you to say?"

The wardrobe dealer was sorely confused; she pointed to Dodichet, muttering:

"Why, it was monsieur who told me that he had a friend—who was very rich—who wanted a wife.—Come, monsieur, didn't you tell me that?"

"Yes, I did," Dodichet replied; "I told you so because I thought so. That rascal of a MiflorÈs deceived me too, and I am in despair.—But, after all, Monsieur Mirotaine, I don't see that there's any occasion for you to fly into such a rage. This mistake has afforded you an opportunity to give your friends a dinner party; you certainly can't be sorry for that. And as for myself, it has given me the pleasure of making your acquaintance, which I hope to cultivate. I will bring you some specimens of sugar and molasses, first quality. Meanwhile, I must run after this MiflorÈs, who has deceived me shamefully. He will have my life, or I his; but I prefer to have his.—Mesdames, I lay my homage at your feet!"

And Dodichet disappeared almost as abruptly as Seringat.

"Do you suppose that he will really fight with that pretended count?" Monsieur Mirotaine asked DubottÉ.

"He, fight with the other one! It's easy to see that you don't know Dodichet! He's a blagueur of the first order, and all this is only a practical joke that he undertook to play on you."

Monsieur Mirotaine fell into a chair, utterly overwhelmed.

"A dinner of eleven covers!" he murmured. "Oh! my fine claret!"

"And your pretended count has carried off my hat!" shouted Monsieur Brid'oison, prowling around the dining-room.

"Cheer up, my dear," said his wife; "the one he has left behind is much newer than yours!"