ushing sound, as of many agitated skirts, was heard
in the hall. Three heads peeped from the window of the blue parlour, and
three pairs of curious eyes were rewarded by a sight of the bridegroom,
as he alighted.

Such a little man! Such a fierce moustache! Such a dignified strut! And
such an imposing uniform as he wore! For Jules Gustave Adolphe Marie
Clomadoc was a colonel in some regiment stationed at Boulogne. Out he
skipped; in he marched; and, peeping over the banisters, they saw him
salute Madame F. with a stately kiss on the hand, then escort her up to
her _salon_, bowing loftily, and twisting his tawny moustache with an
air that gave him the effect of being six feet in height, and broad in
proportion.

How he greeted his _fiancee_ they knew not, but the murmur of voices
came from the room in steady flow for hours, and Gaston flew in and out
with an air of immense importance.

At dinner the strangers were proudly presented to M. le Colonel, and
received affable bows from the little man, who flattered himself that he
could talk English, and insisted on speaking an unknown tongue,
evidently wondering at their stupidity in not understanding their own
language.

He escorted Madame down, sat between her and Pelagie, but talked only to
her; while the girl sat silent and ate her dinner with an appetite which
no emotion could diminish. It was very funny to see the small warrior do
his wooing of the daughter through the mother; and the buxom widow
played her part so well that an unenlightened observer would have said
_she_ was the bride-elect. She smiled, she sighed, she discoursed, she
coquetted, and now and then plucked out her handkerchief and wept at the
thought of losing the angel, who was placidly gnawing bones and wiping
up the gravy on her plate with bits of bread.

Jules responded with spirit, talked, jested, quoted poetry, paid
compliments right and left, and now and then passed the salt, filled a
glass, or offered a napkin to his _fiancee_ with a French shrug and a
tender glance.

After dinner Madame F. begged him to recite one of his poems; for it
appeared this all-accomplished man was beloved of the muse, and twanged
the lyre as well as wielded the sword. With much persuasion and many
modest apologies, Jules at length consented, took his place upon the
rug, thrust one hand into his bosom, turned up his eyes, and, in a
tremendous voice, declaimed a pensive poem of some twenty stanzas,
called 'Adieu to