Vaudemont, a French gentleman, really well-born, but whose
various excesses, added to his poverty, had not served to sustain that
respect for his birth which he considered due to it. He had already
been twice married; once to an Englishwoman, who had been decoyed by the
title; by this lady, who died in childbed, he had one son; a fact which
he sedulously concealed from the world of Paris by keeping the unhappy
boy--who was now some eighteen or nineteen years old--a perpetual exile
in England. Monsieur de Vaudemont did not wish to pass for more than
thirty, and he considered that to produce a son of eighteen would be to
make the lad a monster of ingratitude by giving the lie every hour to
his own father! In spite of this precaution the Vicomte found great
difficulty in getting a third wife--especially as he had no actual
land and visible income; was, not seamed, but ploughed up, with the
small-pox; small of stature, and was considered more than un peu
bete. He was, however, a prodigious dandy, and wore a lace frill
and embroidered waistcoat. Mr. Love's vis-a-vis was Mr. Birnie, an
Englishman, a sort of assistant in the establishment, with a hard, dry,
parchment face, and a remarkable talent for silence. The host himself
was a splendid animal; his vast chest seemed to occupy more space at the
table than any four of his guests, yet he was not corpulent or unwieldy;
he was dressed in black, wore a velvet stock very high, and four gold
studs glittered in his shirt-front; he was bald to the crown, which made
his forehead appear singularly lofty, and what hair he had left was
a little greyish and curled; his face was shaved smoothly, except a
close-clipped mustache; and his eyes, though small, were bright and
piercing. Such was the party.

"These are the best bon-bons I ever ate," said Mr. Love, glancing at
Madame Caumartin. "My fair friends, have compassion on the table of a
poor bachelor."

"But you ought not to be a bachelor, Monsieur Lofe," replied the fair
Rosalie, with an arch look; "you who make others marry, should set the
example."

"All in good time," answered Mr. Love, nodding; "one serves one's
customers to so much happiness that one has none left for one's self."

Here a loud explosion was heard. Monsieur Goupille had pulled one of the
bon-bon crackers with Mademoiselle Adele.

"I've got the motto!--no--Monsieur has it: I'm always unlucky," said the
gentle Adele.

The epicier solemnly unrolled the little sl