lent friend Bubu le Vainqueur, whose
acquaintance together with that of his fair companions I would not
advise you to cultivate."

"But Master," I gasped, "what has happened?"

"I'll veil it, my son," said he, laying his hand on my shoulder, "in the
decent obscurity of a learned language, '_Canis reversus ad suum vomitum
et sus lota in volutabro luti_.'"

"_Oh, mon Dieu_," sighed Blanquette again, as if it were something too
appalling.

"But why, Master?" I entreated.

"Why wallow? Why not? And now, my little Blanquette, we will all go home
and you shall make me some good coffee. Or do you want to stay longer
and dance with Asticot?"

"Oh, let us go away, Master," said Blanquette, casting a scared glance
at Bubu le Vainqueur, who was watching us with an interested air.

"_Allons_," said Paragot, blandly.

The dance stopped, and the thirsty crowd surged to the gallery. We
threaded our way towards the door, and I thought with burning cheeks
that the eyes of the whole assembly were turned to my master's mud-caked
silk hat. It was a relief to escape from the noise and gas-light of the
_bal_, which had suddenly lost its glamour, into the cool and quiet
street. After we had walked a few yards in silence, he hooked his arms
in Blanquette's and mine, and broke into a loud laugh.

"But it is astonishing, the age of you children! You might be fifty,
each of you, and I your little boy whom you had discovered in an act of
naughtiness and were bringing home! Really are you as displeased with me
_a ce point-la? C'est epatant_! But laugh, my little Blanquette, are you
not glad to see me?"

"But yes, Master," said Blanquette. "It is like a dream."

"And you, Asticot of my heart?"

"I find it a dream too. I can't understand. When did you leave Melford?"

"About five days ago. I would tell you the day of the week, if I had the
habit of exactness."

"And Madame de Verneuil?"

"Is very well, thank you."

After this rebuff I asked no more questions. I remarked that the weather
was still cold. Paragot laughed again.

"He has turned into a nice little bourgeois, hasn't he, Blanquette? He
knows how to make polite conversation. He is tidy in his habits in the
Rue des Saladiers, eh? He does not spit on the floor or spill absinthe
over the counterpane. _Ah! je suis un vieux salaud, hein?_ Don't say no.
And Narcisse?"

"It is he who will be contented to see you," cried Blanquette. "And so
are we all. _Ah oui, en effet, je s