ing dishes, told us
what was going on in the salons.

"Ah! my children, if you could just see how gloomy, how mournful it is!
The men don't move from the sideboards. The women are all sitting in a
circle, way at the end, fanning themselves, without a word. La Grosse[1]
doesn't speak to any one. I believe she's taking a snooze. Monsieur's
the one who keeps things going. Pere Passajon, a glass of
Chateau-Larose. It will set you up."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The Fat Woman, or "Fatty."

All those young fellows were delightful to me, and took a mischievous
pleasure in doing the honors of the cellar so often and in such bumpers
that my tongue began to grow heavy and uncertain; as they said to me, in
their slightly familiar language: "You're spluttering, uncle." Luckily
the last of the effendis had arrived and there was no one else to
announce; for it was of no use for me to struggle against it, every time
I walked between the hangings to launch a name into the salons, the
chandeliers whirled round and round with hundreds of thousands of
dancing lights, and the floors became inclined planes as slippery and
steep as Russian mountains. I must have spluttered, that is sure.

The fresh night air and repeated ablutions at the pump in the courtyard
soon got the better of that little indisposition, and when I betook
myself to the servants' quarters it had altogether disappeared. I found
a large and merry party gathered around a _marquise_ of champagne, of
which all my nieces, in fine array, with fluffy hair and cravats of pink
ribbon, took their full share, notwithstanding the fascinating little
shrieks and grimaces, which deceived no one. Naturally they were talking
about the famous article, an article by Moessard, it seems, full of
shocking disclosures concerning all sorts of degrading occupations that
the Nabob was engaged in fifteen or twenty years ago, at the time of his
first stay in Paris.

It was the third attack of that sort that the _Messager_ had published
within a week, and that rascal Moessard was malicious enough to send a
copy of each number under cover to Place Vendome.

M. Jansoulet received it in the morning with his chocolate; and at the
same hour his friends and his enemies--for a man like the Nabob cannot
be indifferent to anybody--read it and discussed it, and adopted a line
of conduct toward him calculated not to compromise themselves. That
day's article must have been well loaded; for Jansoulet the coa