hing so tasteful: for Heaven's sake,
madame, never put on that cap again. You look, at least, a hundred."

"It's worth one's while, truly," thought Madame Lupot, "to tire one's
self to death receiving people, to be treated to such pretty
compliments."

Her husband, in the meanwhile, continued his labours in pursuit of the
rejected sandwiches.

The big man in spectacles, who wondered that people could live in the
Rue Grenetat, had no idea, nevertheless, of coming there for nothing. He
has seated himself in an arm-chair in the middle of the room, and
informs the company that he is going to repeat a few lines of his own to
them.--The society seems by no means enchanted with the announcement,
but forms itself in a circle, to listen to the poet. He coughs and
spits, wipes his mouth, tales a pinch of snuff, sneezes, has the lamps
raised, the doors shut, asks a tumbler of sugar and water, and passes
his hand through his hair. After continuing these operations for some
minutes, the literary man at last begins. He spouts his verses in a
voice enough to break the glasses; before he has spoken a minute, he has
presented a tremendous picture of crimes, and deaths, and scaffolds,
sufficient to appal the stoutest hearts, when suddenly a great crash
from the inner room attracts universal attention. It is the young
Ascanius, who was trying to get a muffin on the top of a pile of dishes,
and has upset the table, with muffin, and dishes, and all on his own
head. M. Lupot runs off to ascertain the cause of the dreadful cries of
his son; the company follow him, not a little rejoiced to find an excuse
for hearing no more of the poem; and the poet, deprived in this way of
an audience, gets up in a furious passion, takes his hat, and rushes
from the room, exclaiming--"It serves me right. How could I have been
fool enough to recite good verses in the Rue Grenetat!"

Ascanius is brought in and roars lustily, for two of the dishes have
been broken on his nose; and as there is no chance now, either of poetry
or music, the party have recourse to cards--for it is impossible to sit
all night and do nothing.

They make up a table at _bouillote_, and another at _ecarte_. M. Lupot
takes his place at the latter. He is forced to cover all the bets when
his side refuses; and M. Lupot, who never played higher than shilling
stakes in his life, is horrified when they tell him--"You must lay down
fifteen francs to equal our stakes."

"Fifteen francs!"