son be quiet." But Madame Lupot answered without
turning her head, "Make him quiet yourself, M. Lupot--You know very well
it's _your_ business to manage him."

It was now eight o'clock, and nobody was yet arrived. Mademoiselle
looked at her father, who looked at his wife, who looked at her cat. The
father of the family muttered every now and then--"Are we to have our
grand soiree all to ourselves?" And he cast doleful looks on his lamps,
his tables, and all his splendid preparations. Mademoiselle Celanire
sighed and looked at her dress, and then looked in the mirror. Madame
Lupot was as unmoved as ever, and said, "Is this what we've turned every
thing topsy-turvy for?" As for little Ascanius, he jumped about the
room, and shouted, "If nobody comes, what lots of cakes we shall have!"
At last the bell rang. It is a family from the Rue St Denis, retired
perfumers, who have only retained so much of their ancient profession,
that they cover themselves all over with odours. When they enter the
room, you feel as if a hundred scent-bottles were opened at once. There
is such a smell of jasmine and vanille, that you have good luck if you
get off without a headache. Other people drop in. M. Lupot does not know
half his guests, for many of them are brought by others, and even these
he scarcely knows the names of. But he is enchanted with every thing. A
young fashionable is presented to him by some unknown third party, who
says, "This is one of our first pianists, who is good enough to give up
a great concert this evening to come here." The next is a famous singer,
a lion in musical parties, who is taken out every where, and who will
give one of his latest compositions, though unfortunately labouring
under a cold. This man won the first prize at the Conservatory, an
unfledged Boildieu, who will be a great composer of operas--when he can
get librettos to his music, and music to his librettos. The next is a
painter. He has shown at the exhibition--he has had wonderful success.
To be sure nobody bought his pictures, because he didn't wish to sell
them to people that couldn't appreciate them. In short, M. Lupot sees
nobody in his rooms that is not first-rate in some way or other. He is
delighted with the thought--ravished, transported. He can't find words
enough to express his satisfaction at having such geniuses in his house.
For their sakes he neglects his old friends--he scarcely speaks to them.
It seems the new-comers, people he has