what you are about, or he will
fall backwards!"

Madame Pipelet flew to her afflicted partner, and was just in time to
receive him, half fainting, in her arms. The last blow had been too
overwhelming,--the man in the bell-crowned hat had but just strength
left to murmur forth, "The scoundrel has, then, publicly placarded me!"

"I told you, Madame Seraphin, that poor Alfred was suffering dreadful
with the cramp in his stomach, besides being worried to death by a
crack-brained vagabond, who is at him night and day: he'll be the death
of my poor old duck at last. Never mind, darling, I've got a nice little
drop of aniseed to give you; so drink it, and see if you can't shake
your old feathers and be yourself again!"

Thanks to the timely application of Madame Pipelet's infallible remedy,
Alfred gradually recovered his senses; but, alas, scarcely was he
restored to full consciousness ere he was subjected to another and
equally cruel trial of his feelings!

An individual of middle age, respectably dressed, and possessing a
countenance so simple, or rather so silly, as to render it impossible to
suspect him of any malice prepense or intended irony, opened the upper
and glazed part of the lodge door, saying, with the most genuine air of
mystification:

"I have just read on a small board placed over the door, at the entrance
to the alley, the following words: 'Pipelet and Cabrion, dealers in
Friendship and similar Articles. Inquire of the Porter.' Will you oblige
me by explaining the meaning of those words, if you are, as I presume
you to be, the porter in question?"

"The meaning!" exclaimed M. Pipelet, in a voice of thunder, and giving
vent at length to his so long restrained indignation; "the meaning is
simply, sir-r-r, that M. Cabrion is an infamous scoundrel,--an
impostor!"

The simple-looking interrogator drew back, in dread of the consequences
that might follow this sudden and furious burst of wrath, while, wrought
up to a state of fury, Alfred leaned over the half door of the lodge,
his glaring eyeballs and clenched hands indicating the intensity of his
feelings; while the figures of Madame Seraphin and Anastasie were dimly
revealed amid the murky shades of the small room.

"Let me tell you, sir-r-r!" cried M. Pipelet, addressing the
placid-looking man at the door, "that I have no dealings with that
beggar Cabrion, and certainly none in the way of friendship!"

"No, that I'm sure you have not!" screamed out M