“In the trousers!” energetically exclaimed Gueulin, excited by the spectacle.

And Berthe resolutely searched one of the trouser pockets.

Their hands trembled; they were both becoming exceedingly rough, and could have smacked the uncle. But Berthe uttered a cry of victory: from the depths of the pocket she brought forth a handful of money, which she spread out in a plate; and there, amongst a heap of coppers and pieces of silver, was a twenty-franc piece.

“I have it!” said she, her face all red, her hair undone, as she tossed the coin in the air and caught it again.

There was a general clapping of hands, every one thought it very funny. It created quite a hubbub, and was the success of the dinner. Madame Josserand looked at her daughters with a mother's tender smile. The uncle, who was gathering up his money, sententiously observed that, when one wanted twenty francs, one should earn them. And the young ladies, worn out and satisfied, were panting on his right and left, their lips still trembling in the enervation of their desire.

A bell was heard to ring. They had been eating slowly, and the other guests were already arriving. Monsieur Josserand, who had decided to laugh like his wife, enjoyed singing some of BÉranger's songs at table; but as this outraged his better half's poetic tastes, she compelled him to keep quiet. She got the dessert over as quickly as possible, more especially as, since the forced present of the twenty francs, the uncle had been trying to pick a quarrel, complaining that his nephew, LÉon, had not deigned to put himself out to come and wish him many happy returns of the day. LÉon was only coming to the evening party. At length, as they were rising from table, AdÈle said that the architect from the floor below and a young man were in the drawing-room.

“Ah! yes, that young man,” murmured Madame Juzeur, accepting Monsieur Josserand's arm. “So you have invited him? I saw him to-day talking to the doorkeeper. He is very good-looking.”

Madame Josserand was taking Trublot's arm, when Saturnin, who had been left by himself at the tableland who had not been roused from slumbering with his eyes open by all the uproar about the twenty francs, kicked back his chair, in a sudden outburst of fury, shouting:

“I won't have it, damnation! I won't have it!”

It was the very thing his mother always dreaded. She signalled to Monsieur Josserand to take Madame Juzeur away. Then she freed herself from Trublot, who understood, and disappeared; but he probably made a mistake, for he went off in the direction of the kitchen, close upon AdÈle's heels. Bachelard and Gueulin, without troubling themselves about the maniac, as they called him, chuckled in a corner, whilst playfully slapping one another.

“He was so peculiar, I felt there would be something this evening,” murmured Madame Josserand, uneasily. “Berthe, come quick!”

But Berthe was showing the twenty-franc piece to Hortense. Saturnin had caught up a knife. He repeated:

“Damnation! I won't have it! I'll rip their stomachs open!”

“Berthe!” called her mother in despair.

And, when the young girl hastened to the spot, she only just had time to seize him by the hand and prevent him from entering the drawing-room. She shook him angrily, whilst he tried to explain, with his madman's logic.

“Let me be, I must settle them. I tell you it's best. I've had enough of their dirty ways. They'll sell the whole lot of us.”

“Oh! this is too much!” eried Berthe. “What is the matter with you? what are you talking about?”

He looked at her in a bewildered way, trembling with a gloomy rage, and stuttered:

“They're going to marry you again. Never, you hear! I won't have you hurt.”

The young girl eould not help laughing. Where had he got the idea from that they were going to marry her? But he nodded his head: he knew it, he felt it. And as his mother intervened to try and calm him, he grasped his knife so tightly that she drew back. However, she trembled for fear he should be overheard, and hastily told Berthe to take him away and lock him in his room; whilst he, becoming crazier than ever, raised his voice:

“I won't have you married, I won't have you hurt. If they marry you, I'll rip their stomachs open.”

Then Berthe put her hands on his shoulders, and looked him straight in the face.

“Listen,” said she, “keep quiet, or I will not love you any more.”

He staggered, despair softened the expression of his face, his eyes filled with tears.

“You won't love me any more, you won't love me any more. Don't say that. Oh! I implore you, say that you will love me still, say that you will love me always, and that you will never love any one else.”

She had seized him by the wrist, and she led him away as gentle as a child.

In the drawing-room Madame Josserand, exaggerating her intimacy, called Campardon her dear neighbour. Why had Madame Campardon not done her the great pleasure of coming also? and on the architect replying that his wife still continued poorly, she exelaimed that they would have been delighted to have received her in her dressing-gown and her slippers. But her smile never left Oetave, who was conversing with Monsieur Josserand; all her amiability was directed towards him, over Campardon's shoulder. When her husband introduced the young man to her, her cordiality was so great that the latter felt quite uncomfortable.

Other guests were arriving; stout mothers with skinny daughters, fathers and uncles scarcely roused from their office drowsiness, pushing before them flocks of marriageable young ladies. Two lamps, with pink paper shades, lit up the drawingroom with a pale light, which only faintly displayed the old, worn, yellow velvet covered furniture, the scratched piano, and the three smoky Swiss views, which looked like black stains on the cold, bare, white and gold panels. And, in this miserly light, the guests—poor, and, so to say, worn-out figures, without resignation, and whose attire was the cause of much pinching and saving—seemed to become obliterated. Madame Josserand wore her fiery costume of the day before; only, with a view of throwing dust in people's eyes, she had passed the day in sewing sleeves on to the body, and in making herself a lace tippet to cover her shoulders; whilst her two daughters, seated beside her in their dirty cotton jackets, vigorously plied their needles, rearranging with new trimmings their only presentable dresses, which they had been thus altering bit by bit ever since the previous winter.

After each ring at the bell, the sound of whispering issued from the ante-chamber. They conversed in low tones in the gloomy drawing-room, where the forced laugh of some young lady jarred at times like a false note. Behind little Madame Juzeur, Bachelard and Gueulin were nudging each other, and making smutty remarks; and Madame Josserand watched them with an alarmed look, for she dreaded her brother's vulgar behaviour. But Madame Juzeur might hear anything; her lips quivered, and she smiled with angelic sweetness as she listened to the naughty stories. Uncle Bachelard had the reputation of being a dangerous man. His nephew, on the contrary, was chaste. No matter how splendid the opportunities were, Gueulin declined to have anything to do with women upon principle, not that he disdained them, but because he dreaded the morrows of bliss: always very unpleasant, he said.

Berthe at length appeared, and went hurriedly up to her mother.

“Ah, well! I have had a deal of trouble!” whispered she in her ear. “He would not go to bed, so I double-locked the door. But I am afraid he will break everything in the room.”

Madame Josserand violently tugged at her dress. Octave, who was close to them, had turned his head.

“My daughter, Berthe, Monsieur Mouret,” said she, in her most gracious manner, as she introduced them. “Monsieur Octave Mouret, my darling.”

And she looked at her daughter. The latter was well acquainted with this look, which was like an order to clear for action, and which recalled to her the lessons of the night before. She at once obeyed, with the complaisance and the indifference of a girl who no longer stops to examine the person she is to marry. She prettily recited her little part with the easy grace of a Parisian already weary of the world, and acquainted with every subject, and she talked enthusiastically of the South, where she had never been. Octave, used to the stiffness of provincial virgins, was delighted with this little woman's cackle and her sociable manner.

Presently, Trublot, who had not been seen since dinner was over, entered stealthily from the dining-room; and Berthe, catching sight of him, asked thoughtlessly where he had been. He remained silent, at which she felt very confused 3 then, to put an end to the awkward pause which ensued, she introduced the two young men to each other. Her mother had not taken her eyes off her 3 she had assumed the attitude of a commander-in-chief, and directed the campaign from the easy-chair in which she had settled herself. When she judged that the first engagement had given all the result that could have been expected from it, she recalled her daughter with a sign, and said to her, in a low voice:

“Wait till the Vabre's are here before commencing your music. And play loud.”

Octave, left alone with Trublot, began to engage him in conversation.

“A charming person.”

“Yes, not bad.”

“The young lady in blue is her elder sister, is she not? She is not so good-looking.”

“Of course not; she is thinner!”

Trublot, who looked without seeing with his near-sighted eyes, had the broad shoulders of a solid male, obstinate in his tastes. He had come back from the kitchen perfectly satisfied, crunching little black things which Octave recognised with surprise to be coffee berries.

“I say,” asked he abruptly, “the women are plump in the South, are they not?”

Octave smiled, and at once became on an excellent footing with Trublot. They had many ideas in common which brought them closer together. They exchanged confidences on an out-of-the-way sofa; the one talked of his employer at “The Ladies' Paradise,” Madame HÉdouin, a confoundedly fine woman, but too cold; the other said that he had been put on to the correspondence, from nine to five, at his stockbroker's, Monsieur Desmarquay, where there was a stunning maid servant. Just then the drawing-room door opened, and three persons entered.

“They are the Vabres,” murmured Trublot, bending over towards his new friend. “Auguste, the tall one, he who has a face like a sick sheep, is the landlord's eldest son—thirty-three years old, ever suffering from headaches which make his eyes start from his head, and which, some years ago, prevented him from continuing to learn Latin; a sullen fellow who has gone in for trade. The other, ThÉophile, that abortion with carroty hair and thin beard, that little old-looking man of twenty-eight, ever shaking with fits of coughing and of rage, tried a dozen different trades, and then married the young woman who leads the way, Madame ValÉrie—”

“I have already seen her,” interrupted Octave. “She is the daughter of a haberdasher of the neighbourhood, is she not? But how those veils deceive one! I thought her pretty. She is only peculiar, with her shrivelled face and her leaden complexion.”

“She is another who is not my ideal,” sententiously resumed Trublot. “She has superb eyes, and that is enough for some men. But she's a thin piece of goods.”

Madame Josserand had risen to shake ValÉrie's hand.

“How is it,” cried she, “that Monsieur Vabre is not with you? and that neither Monsieur nor Madame Duveyrier have done us the honour of coming? They promised us though. Ah! it is very wrong of them!”

The young woman made excuses for her father-in-law, whose age kept him at home, and who, moreover, preferred to work of an evening. As for her brother and sister-in-law, they had asked her to apologise for them, they having received an invitation to an official party, which they were obliged to attend. Madame Josserand bit her lips. She never missed one of the Saturdays at home of those stuck-up people on the first floor, who would have thought themselves dishonoured had they ascended, one Tuesday, to the fourth. No doubt her modest tea was not equal to their grand orchestral concerts. But, patience! when her two daughters were married, and she had two sons-in-law and their relations to fill her drawing-room, she also would go in for choruses.

“Get yourself ready,” whispered she in Berthe's ear.

They were about thirty, and rather tightly packed, for the parlour, having been turned into a bedroom for the young ladies, was not thrown open. The new arrivals distributed handshakes round. ValÉrie seated herself beside Madame Juzeur, whilst Bachelard and Gueulin made unpleasant remarks out loud about ThÉophile Vabre, whom they thought it funny to call “good for nothing.” Monsieur Josserand—who in his own home kept himself so much in the background that one would have taken him for a guest, and whom one would fail to find when wanted, even though he were standing close by—was in a corner listening in a bewildered way to a story related by one of his old friends, Bonnaud. He knew Bonnaud, who was formerly the general accountant of the Northern railway, and whose daughter had married in the previous spring? Well! Bonnaud had just discovered that his son-in-law, a very respectable-looking man, was an ex-clown, who had lived for ten years at the expense of a female circus-rider.

“Silence! silence!” murmured some good-natured voices. Berthe had opened the piano.

“Really!” explained Madame Josserand, “it is merely an unpretentious piece, a simple reverie. Monsieur Mouret, you like music, I think. Come nearer then. My daughter plays pretty fairly—oh! purely as an amateur, but with expression; yes, with a great deal of expression.”

“Caught!” said Trublot in a low voice. “The sonata stroke.” Octave was obliged to leave his seat and stand up beside the piano. To see the caressing attentions which Madame Josserand showered upon him, it seemed as though she were making Berthe play solely for him.

“'The Banks of the Oise,'” resumed she. “It is really very pretty. Come begin, my love, and do not be confused. Monsieur Mouret will be indulgent.”

The young girl commenced the piece without being in the least confused. Besides, her mother kept her eyes upon her like a sergeant ready to punish with a blow the least theoretical mistake. Her great regret was that the instrument, worn-out by fifteen years of daily scales, did not possess the sonorous tones of the Duveyriers' grand piano; and her daughter never played loud enough in her opinion.

After the sixth bar, Octave, looking thoughtful and nodding his head at each spirited passage, no longer listened. He looked at the audience, the politely absent-minded attention of the men, and the affected delight of the women, all that relaxation of persons for a moment at rest, but soon again to be harassed by the cares of every hour, the shadows of which, before long, would be once more reflected on their weary faces. Mothers were visibly dreaming that they were marrying their daughters, whilst a smile hovered about their mouths, revealing their fierce-looking teeth in their unconscious abandonment; it was the mania of this drawing-room, a furious appetite for sons-in-law, which consumed these worthy middle-class mothers to the asthmatic sounds of the piano.

The daughters, who were very weary, were falling asleep, with their heads dropping on to their shoulders, forgetting to sit up erect. Octave, who had a certain contempt for young ladies, was more interested in Valerie—she looked decidedly ugly in her peculiar yellow silk dress, trimmed with black satin—and feeling ill at ease, yet attracted all the same, his gaze kept returning to her; whilst she, with a vague look in her eyes, and unnerved by the discordant music, was smiling like a crazy person.

At this moment quite a catastrophe occurred. A ring at the bell was heard, and a gentleman entered the room without the least regard for what was taking place.

“Oh! doctor!” said Madame Josserand angrily.

Doctor Juillerat made a gesture of apology, and stood stockstill. Berthe, at this moment, was executing a little passage with a slow and dreamy fingering, which the guests greeted with flattering murmurs. Ah! delightful! delicious! Madame Juzeur was almost swooning away, as though being tickled. Hortense, who was standing beside her sister, turning the pages, was sulkily listening for a ring at the bell amidst the avalanche of notes; and, when the doctor entered, she made such a gesture of disappointment that she tore one of the pages on the stand. But, suddenly, the piano trembled beneath Berthe's weal: fingers, thrumming away like hammers; it was the end of the reverie, amidst a deafening uproar of clangorous chords.

There was a moment of hesitation. The audience was waking up again.. Was it finished? Then the compliments burst out on all sides. Adorable! a superior talent!

“Mademoiselle is really a first-rate musician,” said Octave, interrupted in his observations. “No one has ever given me such pleasure.”

“Do you really mean it, sir?” exclaimed Madame Josserand delighted. “She does not play badly, I must admit. Well! we have never refused the child anything; she is our treasure! She possesses every talent she wished for. Ah! sir, if you only knew her.”

A confused murmur of voices again filled the drawing-room. Berthe very calmly received the praise showered upon her, and did not leave the piano, but sat waiting till her mother relieved her from fatigue-duty. The latter was already speaking to Octave of the surprising manner in which her daughter dashed off “The Harvesters,” a brilliant gallop, when some dull and distant thuds created a stir amongst the guests. For several moments past there had been violent shocks, as though some one was trying to burst a door open. Everybody left off talking, and looked about inquiringly.

“What is it?” ValÉrie ventured to ask. “I heard it before, during the finish of the piece.”

Madame Josserand had turned quite pale. She had recognised Saturnin's blows. Ah! the wretched lunatic! and in her mind's eye she beheld him tumbling in amongst the guests. If he continued hammering like that, it would be another marriage done for!

“It is the kitchen door slamming,” said she with a constrained smile. “AdÈle never will shut it. Go and sec, Berthe.”

The young girl had also understood. She rose and disappeared. The noise ceased at once, but she did not return immediately. Uncle Bachelard, who had scandalously disturbed “The Banks of the Oise” with reflections uttered out loud, finished putting his sister out of countenance by calling to Gueulin that he felt awfully bored and was going to have a grog. They both returned to the dining-room, banging the door behind them.

“That dear old Narcisse, he is always original!” said Madame Josserand to Madame Juzeur and ValÉrie, between whom she had gone and seated herself. “His business occupies him so much! You know, he has made almost a hundred thousand francs this year!”

Octave, at length free, had hastened to rejoin Trublot, who was half asleep on the sofa. Near them, a group surrounded Doctor Juillerat, the old medical man of the neighbourhood, not over brilliant, but who had become in course of time a good practitioner, and who had delivered all the mothers in their confinements and had attended all the daughters. He made a speciality of women's ailments, which caused him to be in great demand of an evening, the husbands all trying to obtain a gratuitous consultation in some corner of the drawing-room. Just then, ThÉophile was telling him that ValÉrie had had another attack the day before; she was for ever having a choking fit and complaining of a lump rising in her throat; and he, too, was not very well, but his complaint was not the same. Then he did nothing but speak of himself, and relate his vexations: he had commenced to read for the law, had engaged in manufactures at a foundry, and had tried office management at the Mont-de-PiÉtÉ; then he had busied himself with photography, and thought he had found a means of making vehicles supply their own motive power; meanwhile, out of kindness, he was travelling some piano-flutes, an invention of one of his friends. And he complained of his wife: it was her fault if nothing went right at home; she was killing him with her perpetual nervous attacks.

“Do pray give her something, doctor!” implored he, coughing and moaning, his eyes lit up with hatred, in the querulous rage of his impotency.

Trublot watched him, full of contempt; and he laughed silently as he glanced at Octave. Doctor Juillerat uttered vague and calming words: no doubt, they would relieve her, the dear lady. At fourteen, she was already stifling, in the shop of the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin; he had attended her for vertigo which always ended by bleeding at the nose; and, as ThÉophile recalled with despair her languid gentleness when a young girl, whilst now, fantastic and her temper changing twenty times in a day, she absolutely tortured him, the doctor merely shook his head. Marriage did not succeed with all women.

“Of course!” murmured Trublot, “a father who has gone off his chump by passing thirty years of his life in selling needles and thread, a mother who has always had her face covered with pimples, and that in an airless hole of old Paris, no one can expect such people to have daughters like other folks!”

Octave was surprised. He was losing some of his respect for that drawing-room which he had entered with a provincial's emotion. Curiosity was awakened within him, when he observed Campardon consulting the doctor in his turn, but in whispers, like a sedate person desirous of letting no one become acquainted with his family mishaps.

“By the way, as you appear to know everything,” said Octave to Trublot, “tell me what it is that Madame Campardon is suffering from. Every one puts on a very sad face whenever it is mentioned.”

“Why, my dear fellow,” replied the young man, “she has—”

And he whispered in Octave's ear. Whilst he listened, the latter's face first assumed a smile, and then became very long with a look of profound astonishment.

“It is not possible!” said he.

Then, Trublot gave his word of honour. He knew another lady in the same state.

“Besides,” resumed he, “it sometimes happens after a confinement that—”

And he began to whisper again. Octave, convinced, became quite sad. He who had fancied all sorts of things, who had imagined quite a romance, the architect occupied elsewhere and drawing him towards his wife to amuse her! In any case he now knew that she was well guarded. The young men pressed up against each other, in the excitement caused by these feminine secrets which they were stirring up, forgetting that they might be overheard.

Madame Juzeur was just then confiding to Madame Josser-and her impressions of Octave. She thought him very becoming, no doubt, but she preferred Monsieur Auguste Vabre The latter, standing up in a corner of the drawing-room, remained silent, in his insignificance and with his usual evening headache.

“What surprises me, dear madame, is that you have not thought of him for your Berthe. A young man set up in business, who is prudence itself. And he is in want of a wife, I know that he is desirous of getting married.”

Madame Josserand listened, surprised. She would never herself have thought of the linendraper. Madame Juzeur, however, insisted, for in her misfortune, she had the mania of working for the happiness of other women, which caused her to busy herself with everything relating to the tender passions of the house. She affirmed that Auguste never took his eyes off Berthe. In short, she invoked her experience of men: Monsieur Mouret would never let himself be caught, whilst that good Monsieur Vabre would be very easy and very advantageous. But Madame Josserand, weighing the latter with a glance, came decidedly to the conclusion that such a son-in-law would not be of much use in filling her drawing-room.

“My daughter detests him,” said she, “and I would never oppose the dictates of her heart.”

A tall thin young lady had just played a fantasia on the “Dame Blanche.” As uncle Bachelard had fallen asleep in the dining-room, Gueulin reappeared and imitated the nightingale on his flute. No one listened, however, for the story about Bonnaud had spread. Monsieur Josserand was quite upset, the fathers held up their arms, the mothers were stifling. What! Bonnaud's son-in-law was a clown! Then who could one believe in now? and the parents, in their appetites for marriages, suffered regular nightmares, like so many distinguished convicts in evening dress. The fact was, that Bonnaud had been so delighted at the opportunity of getting rid of his daughter that he had not troubled much about references, in spite of his rigid prudence of an over-scrupulous general accountant.

“Mamma, the tea is served,” said Berthe, as she and AdÈle opened the folding doors.

And, whilst the company passed slowly into the dining-room, she went up to her mother and murmured:

“I have had enough of it! He wants me to stay and tell him stories, or he threatens to smash everything!”

On a grey cloth which was too narrow, was served one of those teas laboriously got together, a cake bought at a neighbouring baker's, with some mixed sweet biscuits, and some sandwiches on either side. At either end of the table quite a luxury of flowers, superb and costly roses, withdrew attention from the ancient dust on the biscuits, and the poor quality of the butter. The sight caused a commotion, and jealousies were kindled: really those Josserands were ruining themselves in trying to marry off their daughters. And the guests, having but poorly dined, and only thinking of going to bed with their bellies full, casting side glances at the bouquets, gorged themselves with weak tea and imprudently devoured the hard stale biscuits and the heavy cake. For those persons who did not like tea, AdÈle handed round some glasses of red currant syrup. It was pronounced excellent.

Meanwhile, the uncle was asleep in a corner. They did not wake him, they even politely pretended not to see him. A lady talked of the fatigues of business. Berthe went from one to another, offering sandwiches, handing cups of tea, and asking the men if they would like any more sugar. But she was unable to attend to every one, and Madame Josserand was looking for her daughter Hortense, when she caught sight of her standing in the middle of the deserted drawing-room, talking to a gentleman, of whom one could only see the back.

“Ah! yes! he has come at last,” she permitted, in her anger, to escape her.

There was some whispering. It was that Verdier, who had been living with a woman for fifteen years past, whilst waiting to marry Hortense. Every one knew the story, the young ladies exchanged glances; but they bit their lips, and avoided speaking of it, out of propriety. Octave, being made acquainted with it, examined the gentleman's back with interest. Trublot knew the mistress, a good girl, a reformed streetwalker, who was better now, said he, than the best of wives, taking care of her man, and looking after his clothes; and he was full of a fraternal sympathy for her. Whilst they were being watched from the dining-room, Hortense was scolding Verdier with all the sulkiness of a badly brought up virgin for having come so late.

“Hallo! red currant syrup!” said Trublot, seeing AdÈle standing before him, a tray in her hand.

He sniffed it and declined. But, as the servant turned round, a stout lady's elbow pushed her against him, and he pinched her back. She smiled, and returned to him with the tray.

“No, thanks,” said he. “By-and-by.”

Women were seated round the table, whilst the men were eating, standing up behind them. Exclamations were, heard, an enthusiasm, which died away as the mouths were filled with food. The gentlemen were appealed to. Madame Josserand cried:

“Ah! yes, I was forgetting. Come and look, Monsieur Mouret, you who love the arts.”

“Take care, the water-colour stroke!” murmured Trublot, who knew the house.

It was better than a water-colour. As though by chance, a porcelain bowl was standing on the table; right at the very bottom of it, surrounded by the brand new varnished bronze mounting, Greuze's “Young girl with the broken Pitcher” was painted in light colours, passing from pale lilac to faint blue. Berthe smiled in the midst of the praise.

“Mademoiselle possesses every talent,” said Octave with his good-natured grace. “Oh! the colours are so well blended, and it is very accurate, very accurate!”

“I can guarantee that the design is!” resumed Madame Josserand, triumphantly. “There is not a hair too many or few. Berthe copied it here, from an engraving. There are really such a number of nude subjects at the Louvre, and the people there are at times so mixed!”

She had lowered her voice when giving this last piece of information, desirous of letting the young man know that, though her daughter was an artist, she did not let that carry her beyond the limits of propriety. She probably, however, thought Octave rather cold, she felt that the bowl had not met with the success she had anticipated, and she watched him with an anxious look, whilst ValÉrie and Madame Juzeur, who were drinking their fourth cup of tea, examined the painting and gave vent to little cries of admiration.

“You are looking at her again,” said Trublot to Octave, on seeing him with his eyes fixed on ValÉrie.

“Why, yes,” replied he, slightly confused. “It is funny, she looks pretty just at this moment. A warm woman, evidently. I say, do you think one might venture?”

“Warm, one never knows. It is a peculiar fancy! Anyhow, it would be better than marrying the girl.”

“What girl?” exclaimed Octave, forgetting himself. “What! you think I am going to let myself be hooked' Never! My dear fellow, we don't marry at Marseilles!” Madame Josserand had drawn near. The words came upon her like a stab in the heart. Another fruitless campaign, another evening party wasted! The blow was such, that she was obliged to lean against a chair, as she looked with despair at the now despoiled table, where all that remained was a burnt piece of the cake. She had given up counting her defeats, but this one should be the last; she took a frightful oath, swearing that she would no longer feed persons who came to see her solely to gorge. And, upset and exasperated, she glanced round the dining-room, seeking into what man's arms she could throw her daughter, when she caught sight of Auguste resignedly standing against the wall and not having partaken of anything.

Just then, Berthe, with a smile on her face, was moving towards Octave, with a cup of tea in her hand. She was continuing the campaign, obedient to her mother's wishes. But the latter caught her by the arm and called her a silly fool under her breath.

“Take that cup to Monsieur Vabre, who has been waiting for an hour past,” said she, graciously and very loud.

Then, whispering again in her daughter's ear, and giving her another of her warlike looks, she added:

“Be amiable, or you will have me to deal with!”

Berthe, for a moment put out of countenance, soon recovered herself. It often changed thus three times in an evening. She carried the cup to Auguste, with the smile which she had commenced for Octave; she was amiable, talked of Lyons silks, and did the engaging young person who would look very well behind a counter. Auguste's hands trembled a little, and he was very red, as he was suffering a good deal from his head that evening.

Out of politeness, a few persons returned and sat down for some moments in the drawing-room. Having fed, they were all going off. When they looked for Verdier, he had already taken his departure; and some young ladies, greatly put out, only carried away an indistinct view of his back. Campardon, without waiting for Octave, retired with the doctor, whom he detained on the landing, to ask him if there was really no more hope. During the tea, one of the lamps had gone out, emitting a stench of rancid oil, and the other lamp, the wick of which was all charred, lit up the room with so poor a light that the Vabres themselves rose to leave in spite of the attentions with which Madame Josserand overwhelmed them. Octave had preceded them into the ante-room, where he had a surprise: Trublot, who was looking for his hat, suddenly disappeared. He could only have gone off by the passage leading to the kitchen.

“Well! wherever has he got to? does he leave by the servants' staircase?” murmured the young man.

But he did not seek to clear up the mystery. ValÉrie was there, looking for a lace neckerchief. The two brothers, ThÉophile and Auguste, were going downstairs, without troubling themselves about her. Octave, having found the neckerchief, handed it to her, with the air of admiration he put on when serving the pretty lady customers of “The Ladies' Paradise.” She looked at him, and he felt certain that her eyes, on fixing themselves on his, had flashed forth flames.

“You are too kind, sir,” said she, simply.

Madame Juzeur, who was the last to leave, enveloped them both in a tender and discreet smile. And when Octave, highly excited, had reached his cold chamber, he looked at himself for an instant in the glass, and he thought it worth while to make the attempt!

Meanwhile, Madame Josserand was wandering about the deserted room, without saying a word, and as though carried away by some gale of wind. She had violently closed the piano and turned out the last lamp; then, passing into the diningroom, she began to blow out the candles so vigorously that the chandelier quite shook. The sight of the despoiled table covered with dirty plates and empty cups, increased her rage; and she turned round it, casting terrible glances at her daughter Hortense, who, quietly sitting down, was devouring the piece of burnt cake.

“You are putting yourself in a fine state again, mamma,” said the latter. “Is it not going on all right, then? For myself, I am satisfied. He is purchasing some chemises for her to enable her to leave.”

The mother shrugged her shoulders.

“Eh? you say that this proves nothing. Very good, only steer your ship as well as I steer mine. Here now is a cake which may flatter itself it is a precious bad one! They must be a wretched lot to swallow such stuff.”

Monsieur Josserand, who was always worn out by his wife's parties, was reposing on a chair 3 but he was in dread of an encounter, he feared that Madame Josserand might drive him before her in her furious promenade 3 and he drew close to Bachelard and Gueulin, who were seated at the table in front of Hortense. The uncle, on awaking, had discovered a decanter of rum. He was emptying it, and bitterly alluding to the twenty francs.

“It is not for the money,” he kept repeating to his nephew, “it is the way the thing was done. You know how I behave to women: I would give them the shirt off my back, but I do not like them to ask me for anything. The moment they begin to ask, it annoys me, and I don't even chuck them a radish.”

And, as his sister was about to remind him of his promises: “Be quiet, ElÉonore! I know what I have to do for the child. But, you see, when a woman asks, it is more than I can stand. I have never been able to keep friends with one, have I now, Gueulin? And besides, there is really such little respect shown me! LÉon has not even deigned to wish me many happy returns of the day.”

Madame Josserand resumed her walk, clinching her fists. It was true, there was LÉon too, who promised and then disappointed her like the others. There was one who would not sacrifice an evening to help to marry off his sisters! She had just discovered a sweet biscuit, fallen behind one of the flower vases, and was locking it up in a drawer when Berthe, who had gone to release Saturnin, brought him back with her. She was quieting him, whilst he, haggard and with a mistrustful look in his eyes, was searching the corners, with the feverish excitement of a dog that has been long shut up.

“How stupid he is!” said Berthe, “he thinks that I have just been married. And he is seeking for the husband! Ah! my poor Saturnin, you may seek. I tell you that it has come to nothing! You know very well that it never comes to anything.”

Then, Madame Josserand's rage burst all bounds.

“Ah! I swear to you that it sha'n't come to nothing next time, even if I have to tie him to you myself! There is one who shall pay for all the others. Yes, yes, Monsieur Josserand, you may stare at me, as though you did not understand: the wedding shall take place, and without you, if it does not please you. You hear, Berthe! you have only to pick that one up!” Saturnin appeared not to hear. He was looking under the table. The young girl pointed to him; but Madame Josserand made a gesture which seemed to imply that he would be got out of the way. And Berthe murmured:

“So then it is decidedly to be Monsieur Vabre? Oh! it is all the same to me. To think though that not a single sandwich has been saved for me?”