g, about three weeks
after I had returned to Paris. I had dined at home with Blanquette, and
was in the midst of a drawing which I blush to say I was doing for _Le
Fou Rire_, an unprincipled comic paper fortunately long since
defunct--(fortunately? Tartuffe that I am. Many a welcome louis did I
get from it in those necessitous days)--when she looked up from her
sewing and asked when the Master was coming back. The question led to an
answer, the answer to an observation, and the observation to the
discussion of the Subject.

"There is no way out of it, _mon pauvre Asticot, je vais me fich' a
l'eau, comme je l'ai dit_."

"In the meanwhile, my dear," said I, throwing down the crow-quill pen
and pushing my drawing away, "if you remain in this pestilential
condition of morbidness, you will die without the necessity of drowning
yourself. Instead of making ourselves miserable, let us go and dance at
the Bal Jasmin. _Veux-tu?_"

"This evening?" she asked, startled. She had never grown accustomed to
the suddenness of the artistic temperament.

"Of course this evening. You don't suppose I would ask you to dance next
month so as to cure you of indigestion to-night."

"But nothing is wrong with my stomach, _mon cher_," said the literal
Blanquette.

"It is indigestion of the heart," said I, after the manner of Paragot,
"and dancing with me at the Bal Jasmin will be the best thing in the
world for you."

"It would give you pleasure?"

This was charmingly said. It implied that she would sacrifice her
feelings for my sake. But her eyes brightened and her cheeks flushed a
little. Women are rank hypocrites on occasion.

Ten minutes later Blanquette, wearing her black Sunday gown set off by a
blue silk scarf embroidered at the edges with a curious kind of pink
forget-me-not, her hair tidily coiled on top and fixed with my
tortoise-shell comb, announced that she was ready. We started. In those
days I did not drive to balls in luxurious hired vehicles. I walked,
pipe in mouth, correctly giving my arm to Blanquette. No doubt everybody
thought us lovers. It is odd how wrong everybody can be sometimes.

The Bal Jasmin was situated in the Rue Mouffetard. It has long since
disappeared with many a haunt of my youth's revelry. The tide of frolic
has set northward, and Montmartre, which to us was but a geographical
term, now dazzles the world with its venal splendour. But the Moulin de
la Galette and the Bal Tabarin of the present day