Chapter IX: A Studio Party.--A Fetich.--The Burgundian

It is very disagreeable to be disappointed in one's expectations; but the disappointment is especially keen after an amorous rendezvous: you have dreamed of happiness in its most seductive form; your imagination has conceived the most touching pictures, the most gratifying situations. All these thoughts have heated your brain and your mind--when you have one--and your passions at least, in default of a mind; and when all your anticipations result in nothing at all, you beat a retreat in dire distress, like the crow in the fable. But if, instead of the kisses that you hoped to steal, you have received a blow, you are quite justified in being vexed and angry, as well as distressed.

It is said that a blow from a woman's hand does no harm; doubtless because, being often dealt in obedience to a hasty impulse, it is followed by repentance, and the recipient is accorded the privilege of earning another. But take a sharp, stinging blow, and nothing more. I doubt whether the fact that it was delivered by the loveliest of women and the prettiest hand would make it welcome to you.

You will say, perhaps, that Madame Plays had not given young Pigeonnier a rendezvous. True; but she had accepted his escort, she had consented to go to a private dining-room with him; and those concessions, in the judgment of discerning persons, would be tantamount to giving her consent that he should take Albert's place in every respect.

The little fellow reflected profoundly, as he walked from the Champs-Élysées to Rue Taitbout; he walked very fast, for one rarely moves slowly when intensely excited.

"Can it be that Albert didn't write what he dictated to himself?" he thought. "I ought to have read his letter before delivering it. Can he have written some insulting thing about her? Was it a deliberate scheme to make a fool of me? _Fichtre!_ if I knew that, he'd hear something more from me! I don't propose to be made a guy of!"

In his excitement, the young man brandished his beautiful gold-headed cane, as if he proposed to break somebody's head; and in his gesticulations he came within an ace of knocking off the hat of a respectable lady, its somewhat exaggerated brim happening to be directly under his cane as he imitated the exploits of a drum-major. Luckily, the ribbons tied under the lady's chin prevented the hat from falling, and it was simply thrown back on her shoulders. But the gentleman who was with the lady, and who was indignant that a passer-by should presume to knock his wife's hat off with a cane, walked up to Tobie, and said to him in a threatening tone:

"I say, monsieur, what sort of a performance is this? You threaten us with your cane! You nearly put my wife's eye out, and you knocked off her hat, which would have fallen into the street if it hadn't been for the ribbons!"

"Oh! monsieur, madame, a thousand pardons!" stammered Tobie; "I was so preoccupied--I didn't see you."

"What! are we dwarfs?"

"No, monsieur--far from it; you are very tall. But when a man is thinking about something else----"

"That's a fine reason! We were thinking of something else, too, monsieur. Do you suppose we were thinking of your cane? By heaven! if you had destroyed my wife's eye, you wouldn't have taken your own home with you!"

"I am sure of it, monsieur; I ask a thousand pardons."

"When you carry a cane, monsieur, you ought to know how to use it."

"It was because I thought that I was using it that I was gesticulating with it."

During this colloquy the lady had readjusted her hat; and she drew her husband away, saying:

"Come, my dear; as monsieur did it accidentally, let's accept his apologies."

"Accidentally! upon my word, it would be very pretty if he had intended to do it! By all the devils! if I believed that----"

And the gentleman, becoming more and more enraged as he became more convinced of his adversary's terror, began to grind his teeth and act as if he proposed to fall upon Tobie; but Tobie was already far away; he had taken to his heels, trying to thrust his cane into his pocket, as a means of avoiding any further disaster.

This incident calmed the young man's excitement.

"I cannot accuse Albert," he said to himself, as he reached the painter's door; "I have no proofs. I ought to have picked up the letter, when Madame Plays threw it on the floor. I'll go back to the café to-morrow and ask the waiter if he found it. Meanwhile, I won't be such a donkey as to tell what happened to me, for they would laugh at me unmercifully. On the contrary, I must make them think that my triumph was complete."

Balivan lived on Rue Taitbout, in the same house as young Elina and her aunt. His apartments were on the third floor; he had three small rooms, and a studio which was large enough for him, as he painted nothing but portraits.

Several times, as he was returning home, the young artist had met the little dressmaker going to her work; and he had been impressed by her beauty. Knowing that she was his neighbor, he had tried to form an acquaintance with her, and had proposed to paint her portrait, if she would be his model for a study which he intended to exhibit at the Salon. But Elina had declined his offers, and had always refused to enter the painter's studio. And yet, it is a very pleasant thing to have one's own portrait. How many women and girls allow themselves to be allured by such an offer, by the desire to see their faces at the Salon, and to have an opportunity to listen to the compliments certain to be lavished upon them. What joy to say to their companions in the workroom: "My portrait is at the Salon; I represent an Italian peasant--a Swiss peasant--and a wood nymph. The painter insisted on putting my face in all his pictures."--Elina, too, had been tempted; but she had resisted the temptation. To be sure, Balivan was very ugly.

The artist's studio was lighted by a lamp placed on the stove; its rays fell upon a full-length portrait of a very pretty woman in a ball dress, and upon the head of an old soldier, whose nose was not finished; scattered here and there, on the floor, or hung on the walls, were various canvases, in all stages of completion, from the merest sketch to the finished portrait. Some plaster busts, easels, a manikin in female dress, sketches, and several portraits refused admission to the Salon, or by the persons for whom they were painted, and relegated by the artist to the darkest corners of the studio, combined to give a unique aspect to the apartment.

Four young men, seated around a table in the middle of the room, were enjoying with great zest the pleasures of bouillotte. On a small table, close at hand, stood an enormous salad bowl filled with blazing punch; and glasses, pipes, cigars, tobacco pouches, and even snuffboxes, were scattered over another small table of Chinese lacquer, which had momentarily deserted the artist's salon to embellish his studio.

When Tobie appeared, the card table was occupied by Albert, Célestin, Mouillot, and a young man, who was not of the dinner party at the Maison-Dorée, but had joined the band of roisterers when they left the restaurant, and had asked for nothing better than to pass the night with them at bouillotte.

This young man, who was the possessor of an insignificant and utterly expressionless face, had hair so light that it was almost white, and eyebrows of the same color, which gave him some resemblance to an albino; still, in spite of that, he might have been considered a good-looking fellow enough, if his manner had been less indolent; but he had about twelve thousand francs a year, which his family permitted him to consume in Paris; the result being that in society, and especially among the high livers, Monsieur Varinet's company was much sought after. Not that he was amiable and jovial in society: he was always cold and impassive, and not even wine had the power to enliven him; but he spent his money with the same indifference which he displayed in every other action of his life; and he would lose large sums at cards without any sign of emotion. All his friends esteemed him highly on that account.

Gold and silver were scattered over the table, and the animated air of the players indicated that the game was beginning to be warm.

Balivan himself was filling the glasses with punch, and Dupétrain sat in front of the manikin dressed as a woman, which he seemed to be scrutinizing with care.

"Ah! here's Tobie! _Vive Tobie!_" cried the artist, as Pigeonnier entered the room. And, despite their absorbing interest in the game, the card players joined in the cry:

"Here's Tobie! Here's that Don Juan of a Tobie!"

The young man with white eyebrows was the only one who said nothing; he contented himself with saluting the new-comer, as one salutes a person with whom he is but slightly acquainted.

"Yes, messieurs, it's I," said Pigeonnier, wiping his forehead. "You are well started already, I see. I speak for a place."

"You can come in with Balivan," said Célestin. "There are six of us now; two will go out on the quarter-hour."

"And Monsieur Dupétrain?"

"Who ever heard of Dupétrain playing cards? Upon my soul, I believe he's trying to magnetize my manikin!"

"Well, Tobie," said Albert, "what news of our fair one? Are you content? Did she accept the substitution with a good grace?"

"I am perfectly content!" Pigeonnier replied, trying to assume a triumphant swagger. "She didn't seem at all angry over the adventure; she treated me very kindly."

"Good--I understand. So everything went as you wished, eh?"

"In other words, it is impossible for me to be happier than I have been."

"What did I tell you?"

"You're not attending to your game, Albert," said Célestin.

"Yes, I am. I have opened."

"I take all bets."

"Done!"

"You're stuck! I have _misty_."[C]

"What infernal luck! That makes four hundred francs I've lost already!--I say, Balivan, give me some punch, to drown my loss."

"Give me a cigar, Balivan."

"Balivan, you promised me your Moorish pipe; you are going to give it to me, aren't you?"

"Pass me your tobacco pouch, will you?"

"One moment, messieurs, I can't do everything; I'm going to call my lady's-maid, on condition that you treat her with respect.--Hallo, there, Crevette!"

"Is Crevette your servant's name?" inquired Tobie, helping himself to punch.

"Yes, she's a Burgundian; she had a name that I didn't fancy--it was Cateau![D] You understand that, when I had a lady of fashion here, I couldn't say: 'Cateau, come and take off madame's shawl. Cateau, go and call a cab.' To talk constantly of Cateau before my models, too, was imprudent. So I asked my Burgundian for her family name, and she's a Crevette."

The Burgundian answered her master's summons. She was a robust young woman, with plump red cheeks, and enormous hands and arms of the hue of boiled lobster. She laughed readily enough at the somewhat décolleté jests which the young men addressed to her; but when their words were reinforced by gestures, the Burgundian made free use of her hands, and the lightest tap dealt by her was equivalent to a hard blow with the fist.

"Bring us something to drink, Crevette."

"Punch?" said the Burgundian.

"Beer for me, my chubby wench!--Isn't she fresh, though! and solid!"

"Come, come! down with your paws! I won't have you touching me!"

"Oh! what a calf she must have!--Crevette, show me your leg, just up to the garter, and I'll give you half of my winnings."

"No, I won't show you anything."

"Parbleu! that's a magnificent offer of his, to give you half of his winnings! he's lost ten napoleons already!"

Young Tobie, who had swallowed three glasses of punch in succession in order to attain the level of the rest of the company, softly approached the servant and seized her leg while her back was turned; but the Burgundian, without putting down her tray, instantly brought her elbow back against his nose, crying:

"Let that teach you to pinch me! I'm going to bed--I won't come into your studio again, monsieur; your friends are too enterprising."

Crevette vanished; Tobie put his hand to his nose and seated himself in a corner, muttering:

"I won't fool with her any more; there's no feeling in my nose."

"Poor Tobie! but he can't seem to get enough. He comes here fresh from a delicious tête-à-tête with a charming woman, and he must needs begin at once on a servant! What an omnibus seducer!"

"What would he do, I wonder," said Balivan, "if he should see my little neighbor overhead?"

"You have a pretty neighbor, have you?" queried Albert.

"Charming! Seventeen years old at most, I judge; a fascinating figure! and a saucy, mischievous face--with innocence, grace, and modesty in her glance. Seriously, she's one of the prettiest grisettes I ever saw."

"Send for her!" cried the young men in chorus.

"Make her come down, Balivan."

"Shall I go up and fetch her?" asked Tobie, taking his hand from his nose, which was badly swollen by the blow he had received.

"I will magnetize her; she will enjoy that," said Dupétrain.

"No, messieurs," said Balivan, "there's no way of inducing her to come here. Parbleu! if it could be done, I'd ask nothing better. I have offered again and again to paint her portrait and give it to her--to paint her in any costume she chose."

"Even as Eve, if she wanted you to, eh?"

"All my offers have been declined. She's a virtuous young woman, it would seem. She lives with her aunt, and never goes out except to her work; she's a dressmaker."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Célestin; "she's a dressmaker, and you haven't triumphed over her, my dear fellow! Others may succeed better; and if I should take a hand----"

"Oh! you are such a superb creature, it's quite possible. Still, I doubt it."

"What do you want to bet?"

"Come, attend to your game, messieurs, for God's sake!" said Mouillot. "Sapristi! I have _misty_, and not one of you stands!"

"Monsieur had _brelan_, and he passed!" cried Tobie. "What a blunder!"

"Not at all. Do you think we're playing _brelan_?"

"You're not playing _brelan?_ Why, aren't you playing bouillotte?"

"Yes, but the _brelan_[E] is never played in bouillotte, nowadays. Where have you been, young Pigeonnier?"

"What do you play, then?"

"_Misty._"

"What's _misty_?"

"The knave of clubs with two cards of the same color and same size; for instance, two red nines, or two black aces."

"Very well. And the _brelan_ doesn't count, you say?"

"Not unless _misty_ isn't out; in that case, it's good."

"And the _brelan carré_?"

"Oh! that's always good, and it beats _misty_."

"The devil! I'm rather mixed up with all this; I'm afraid I shall make mistakes."

"Oh, no! you'll get hold of it in a minute."

Monsieur Dupétrain walked up to Tobie, who was standing by the card table, and said:

"While you're not playing, I can tell you the anecdote about magnetism that you were so curious to hear. After you left the dinner table, I didn't choose to tell it; I preferred to wait for you.--A young married woman, whose husband had just started on a journey----"

"Excuse me," said Tobie, "but I am studying _misty;_ I don't quite understand this new way of playing bouillotte, and I shall be very glad not to make any mistakes. Besides, the quarter has struck, messieurs. Who goes out?"

"Mouillot and Célestin.--Come, messieurs, give up your seats."

"We'll just finish the _volante_, then we'll go."

"The _volante_?" exclaimed Tobie; "what in the deuce is that?"

"Each person puts in a chip when everyone passes, and you keep putting in one as long as they pass."

"The devil! that may mount up pretty high, messieurs! why, you are playing an infernal game!"

"Does it frighten you, Monsieur Tobie?"

"I don't say that. What's the stake?"

"Five francs."

The stout youth felt in his pocket, where he found only enough for one stake and half of another. However, he assumed a self-assured air as he took the seat vacated by Célestin, while the artist replaced the jovial Mouillot.

"Célestin has made his little pile!" laughed Albert.

"I? oh, no! I have made myself good, that's all!--Come, Balivan, to return to your pretty neighbor,--do you want to bet my portrait that I don't succeed in seducing her?"

"Yes. But let us understand each other: if I lose, I'll paint your portrait for nothing."

"Just so."

"But if I win?"

"Then I'll pay you for the portrait."

"Indeed! what a generous youth! Where do I gain anything in that, I wonder?"

"Messieurs," said Mouillot, "I'll bet something much more agreeable for the company. I'll bet that I get the little neighbor to come down here."

"Ah! that's something like."

"You said that she lived overhead, Balivan?"

"Yes."

"Very good! just give me a hammer; I'll demolish the ceiling, and then the fascinating grisette will fall through."

"Ha! ha! a famous method!"

Young Tobie, who had already lost his stake, and had taken money from the pool to make up the second one, was no longer in the mood for laughing.

"I say, messieurs," he cried, "just because you're not playing now, you prevent other people from playing. Leave us in peace, will you? I have lost a pile of money already. I keep making mistakes; I have _misty_, and don't see it."

"Bah! a pile of money! he's lost his stake once."

"Besides, my dear fellow, a man can't expect luck in everything. You have just come from a tête-à-tête in which a pretty woman has crowned you with myrtle! you can afford to lose your money."

Tobie bit his lips in vexation and made no reply.

"And then, too, he pinched Crevette's leg!" laughed Mouillot.

"And he has a swollen nose," added Célestin. "The fellow is lucky on all sides.--Some punch, messieurs?"

"With pleasure. I bet twenty francs."

"I take it," said Tobie.

"And I. Show down."

The hands were placed on the table. Monsieur Varinet, who had followed Tobie, had _misty_; but the stout youth, who had three aces, pounced on the money, thinking that he had won. His white-eyebrowed antagonist checked him with the utmost coolness, saying:

"What are you doing? don't you see that I have _misty_?"

"And don't you see that I have three aces?"

"Your three aces amount to nothing, as we're not playing the _brelan_."

"Oh! mon Dieu! I had quite forgotten that; I never thought of it! It's a mistake, messieurs; the hand ought to be thrown out."

"Not at all," said Albert; "you must pay attention; besides, you might have won with your three aces, if you hadn't run against a _misty_. Come, pay up, my dear fellow. Parbleu! you're not so badly off! you're less than thirty francs to the bad."

"Thirty francs fifty, and now I've lost my stake again! This is very fine!"

"Ingrate! after being so lucky in love, not to be willing to be unlucky at play."

"I don't see the necessity of losing all the time."

"Think of Madame Plays, and complain if you dare!"

Young Tobie made a wry face every time Madame Plays was mentioned, and he looked furtively at Albert, muttering between his teeth. After feeling in all his pockets, he feigned an air of astonishment, saying:

"Well, well! I haven't any more money."

"You must have discovered that before," suggested Balivan, "as you have already taken some from the pool."

"Ah! yes, of course.--Will you lend me three or four napoleons, Albert?"

"I would with the greatest pleasure," Albert replied; "but I am out more than five hundred francs myself, and I have had to borrow. Put up a fetich, that's the simplest way--put a sou, a key, anything you please, in front of you, and call it worth any amount you choose."

"True, you are right; I'll put up a fetich."

Tobie felt in his pocket; he produced one of the olives he had stored there at dinner, and placed it in front of him, saying:

"That stands for five hundred francs!"

The painter roared with laughter.

"Rather high-priced olives!" he said.

"I'm not surprised that he filled his pockets with them; he must have taken at least ten thousand francs' worth," cried Mouillot. "Come, who wants some punch? I'll fill the glasses. By the way, I don't see our magnetizer. Where's Dupétrain? Has he gone?"

"Probably," said Balivan. "He never plays, and, seeing that there was no hope of telling us his story, perhaps he has gone home to bed, to try to put someone to sleep."

"What's your pretty neighbor's name?" inquired Célestin, stretching himself out on a couch.

"My neighbor? Wait a minute--I go the limit."

"I take it," said Tobie, rolling his eyes about in a high state of excitement. "I take all bets."

"All right."

Tobie showed a _misty_; but Balivan had a _brelan carré_.

"You told me just now that _brelans_ didn't count!" cried the little fellow.

"True, except _brelans carrés_; they always beat everything."

"Well, then, I don't understand anything at all about it; it's enough to drive a man mad! I don't know what I am playing."

"Come, pay me. You're very lucky, for I bet almost nothing--only twenty-one francs."

"A man can ruin himself with such luck. Here, change this for me; it stands for five hundred francs."

Tobie offered his olive; but Balivan shook his head.

"I haven't enough money to change it for you, you can see that for yourself. You owe me twenty-one francs."

A few moments later, Tobie lost fifteen francs to Monsieur Varinet, who had a heap of gold and silver in front of him. He offered him his fetich, saying:

"Oblige me by giving me the change for this; it will make it easier for me to pay."

Monsieur Varinet took the olive and placed it in front of him, and handed four hundred francs in gold and eighty-five in silver to Tobie, who seemed to take great pleasure in receiving the change for his olive, and, while pretending to arrange it in piles, seized the opportunity to slip several gold pieces into his pocket.

"You owe me twenty-one francs," said Balivan.

"Oh, yes! How the five hundred francs melts away! It will soon be gone."

"Oh! you have a good margin!"

"Isn't it time for us to give up our seats?"

"We don't go out next; it's Monsieur Varinet's turn and Albert's."

"Oh! I thought it was ours."

"Of course not, as we have just come in."

Tobie seemed very anxious now to leave the table; but he was obliged to remain, while Célestin and Mouillot took the places occupied by Albert and Varinet. The latter carefully bestowed the olive in his fob.

"I must make sure not to lose that," he said; "it's as good as a banknote. If I should take it into my head to eat it, it would be rather expensive."

"I've lost six hundred francs," said Albert; "but I don't care a damn; for I trust that the proverb will come true in my case as in Tobie's, and then I shall be lucky in love to-morrow! Ah! how I wish it were to-morrow! and it's only half-past twelve."

"Half-past twelve!" cried Tobie. "Mon Dieu! I said nothing to my concierge, and I'm horribly afraid I shan't be able to get in."

"You can pass the night here."

"Sleep away from home! No, indeed! Besides, I have an appointment at my rooms early to-morrow; and when I don't get a few hours' sleep, I'm always sick a week."

"What in the devil's the use of such a man as that!" said Mouillot; "for my part, I always sit up as long as anyone wants, I drink as much as anyone, and I make love as much as anyone; and I'm always well!"

Albert was walking about the studio; he paused in front of the different portraits of women, and said:

"What lucky dogs these painters are! When they have a pretty woman for a model, they have a right to look at her as often and as long as they please; to order her to smile; and to put her in whatever position they like best!"

"It's a very voluptuous profession!" said Tobie, glancing constantly at Balivan's watch, which had been placed on the table in order to regulate the coming-in and going-out of the different players.

"Well, messieurs, it seems to me your game is rather slow," said Varinet, walking up to the table.

"Parbleu! Tobie keeps passing with superb hands," cried Balivan. "It would seem that he doesn't want to resort to another olive."

"I am waiting for a lucky streak. Ah! now it's time for us to go out."

Pigeonnier hastily left his seat, and Balivan was obliged to do the same, but he did it unwillingly.

"We had at least half a minute more to stay," he said. "Tobie left too soon."

"Quarter to one!" cried the stout youth, with a glance at the clock. "Mon Dieu! Madame Pluchonneau, my concierge, is very hard of hearing."

Balivan seized Tobie's arm as he was edging toward the door while making a pretence of examining the pictures, and led him back to the punch table.

"Come and have a drink," he said.

"But I've drunk a great deal already."

"All the more reason. Will you smoke?"

"Yes, with pleasure, if you'll get me one of your foreign pipes."

"They're right here; I don't need to leave the studio; wait a moment, and I'll fill one for you."

Tobie, who had hoped that the painter would leave him, and had proposed to seize the opportunity to steal away unperceived, was obliged to remain; and he wandered about the studio with a very preoccupied air.

"There, smoke that, and tell me what you think of it," said the painter, offering the young man a narghile of enormous length. "That was Ali Pacha's pipe."

"The devil! suppose my smoking it should make me a savage beast like him! Never mind, I'll take the risk. But how am I to light it? it isn't at all easy, the bowl's so far away."

"You put a candle on the floor, and then hold the pipe to it."

"All right."

Tobie took one of the candles from the card table, and put it on the floor.

"I beg pardon, messieurs," he said; "but I want it to light Ali Pacha's pipe."

He had no sooner put the bowl of the pipe, the stem of which he held in his mouth, to the flame of the candle, than there was a loud report, like a pistol-shot, the pipe bowl burst, the candle was tipped over, a dense smoke filled the studio, fragments of pipe flew in all directions, and Tobie narrowly missed swallowing a piece of the stem, which stuck in his throat an instant after the report.

He fell backward to the floor. Everybody was dismayed for a moment, but, after the first fright, roars of laughter arose on all sides, except from the direction of Tobie, who was still gagged, as it were, by the fragment of pipe stem.

"What infernal kind of tobacco is that?" cried Mouillot.

"Balivan must have had a fit of abstraction," said Albert.

The artist put his hand to his head, and looked in the drawer from which he had taken what he supposed to be tobacco.

"Great God!" he exclaimed. "I see what the trouble is. My infernal pupils insisted on making cartridges this morning for a rifle I wanted to try; one of those that load at the breech. I didn't notice that I was taking powder instead of tobacco. Poor Tobie! I am terribly distressed. Well, well! what in the devil's the matter with him?"

Tobie could not speak, but he pointed to his mouth, which was wide open, and made up a pitiful face. They went hastily to his assistance, and with a small pair of pincers removed the piece of stem which had stuck between his tongue and his windpipe, like the sound-post of a violin.

"_Sacrédié!_" ejaculated Tobie, as soon as he could speak; "what an outrage! to give me a pipe filled with powder! That's a mighty poor joke, messieurs! it might have killed me! I think very highly of Ali Pacha's narghile!"

Balivan had much difficulty in pacifying the little man, and making him understand that when he filled the pipe he was thinking of something else, which prevented his noticing what he filled it with. Tobie was beginning to recover from his fright, and the game of bouillotte was in progress once more, when shrill cries were heard in the direction of the kitchen, and Balivan recognized his maid-servant's voice.

"Has Crevette also been trying to smoke one of Ali Pacha's pipes?" said Mouillot.

"Let us go and see what the trouble is!"

"Let us hasten to succor the Burgundian!"

All the young men hurried after Balivan, Tobie alone excepted; he took advantage of the confusion to leave the house, overjoyed to carry away the change for his olive.

Meanwhile, the painter had reached the kitchen, where he found no one; thence he passed into a small, dark room, where his servant slept, and there he discovered Mademoiselle Crevette, with no other clothing than the one garment which Englishwomen blush to name, holding the magnetizer Dupétrain down on the floor, and pounding him vigorously with her fist, shouting the while:

"Ah! you villain! just look at this joker! My faith! that was a fine idea of his! to come into my room while I was asleep, to do--I don't know what! Luckily, I was only asleep with one eye, and I stopped him just when he'd made up his mind I was too warm, I suppose, for he was pulling off my bedclothes."

They succeeded, not without difficulty, in rescuing Dupétrain from the Burgundian, who would have liked to go on beating him; but when she realized that she was standing before all those young men in her chemise, she suddenly jumped back toward her bed; being, however, a little heavy for gymnastic exercises, she fell sidewise on the mattress, thus exposing the roundest part of her person to the assembled company.

"Bravo! magnificent!" they exclaimed, clapping their hands. "Come, Crevette, just one more jump! you do it so well! What a full moon! We shall have a fine day to-morrow!"

The Burgundian was furious; she seized her pitcher and held it up in the air.

"If you don't clear out of my room, I'll throw it at your heads!"

Balivan, who knew that she was quite capable of doing what she threatened, succeeded in pushing them all out of the room, and they returned to the studio.

"Aha! Monsieur Dupétrain," said Mouillot, "you are a sad rake, it seems."

"That's a very neat trick," said the painter; "we thought you had gone home, and you had stolen into my servant's room!"

"He wanted to magnetize her, no doubt."

"Messieurs," said Dupétrain, decidedly embarrassed, "I swear to you that this is nothing of any consequence, and that the Burgundian rustic misapprehended my intentions. For what did I propose to do? simply make an experiment in magnetism on that dull, brutish temperament. I said to myself: 'If I can succeed in putting that countrywoman into a trance, what an extraordinary proof it will be of the power of my art!'"

"Yes; and he took off Crevette's bedclothes, so that he could see that dull temperament."

"Messieurs, to put myself in communication with a subject, it is necessary----"

"Enough! we don't want to hear any more. To the card table!"

"Why! someone is missing," said Mouillot.

"That's so. Tobie isn't here. Can he have gone away? It isn't possible."

They searched the studio, thinking that he had hidden, to play a trick on them; but they found that he had really gone.

"Oh! he'd been itching to go for a long while," said Balivan.

"Yes, ever since he changed his fetich."

"That's a very convenient dodge," observed Mouillot; "he had at least four hundred and fifty francs left of the change for his olive, and he's gone off with it.--Varinet, you have a fetich of very doubtful value."

Varinet calmly wrapped the olive in a piece of paper and put it back in his pocket.

"Do you think that that young man is capable of leaving this pledge in my hands?" he said. "I believe that he will come to my house to redeem it."

"Oh! he'll redeem it," said Albert; "I have no doubt of that."

But Célestin shook his head.

"Perhaps he will," he murmured; "but he's quite capable of forgetting his debt, and I fancy you'll have to remind him of it. Don't lose your fetich."

"For my part," said Mouillot, "I wouldn't give three francs for that olive."

The young men resumed their game, after saying good-night to Dupétrain, whom Balivan escorted to the landing, to make sure that he did not mistake his road and return to make another attempt to put his servant in a trance.

For an hour longer, the game was very brisk. At the end of that time, Albert, who had lost twelve hundred francs, threw himself on the couch, saying:

"I've had enough, messieurs; I am going to sleep here till daylight."

The other four young men continued the game for some time. At last, Célestin, who had won largely and had no desire to lose what he had won, pretended that he too was sleepy, and lay down on the divan. Mouillot, Balivan, and Varinet played on for a considerable time, until Balivan, having lost heavily, left the table, saying:

"I am going to bed."

"Now it's between us," said Mouillot to the young man with white eyebrows; "a _brûlot_."

"What! can two play bouillotte?"

"Oh, yes! and it's very interesting. It's for the one whose turn it is to bet, to speak; if he sees nothing in his hand, he puts in a chip, and the other does the same. It's a game you can play a long while without saying a word, as you pass very often."

Varinet consented to play; but Mouillot, who was decidedly lucky at two-handed bouillotte, and who played a very shrewd game, soon won all his opponent's money; Varinet had nothing left but the olive, and he proposed to stake that; but Mouillot, who was not anxious to win it, preferred to follow the example of the others and take a little nap. He lay down beside Célestin on the divan.

The young man with white eyebrows reclined in an easy-chair, and soon everybody was asleep in the artist's studio, where the most absolute quiet had succeeded the noisy outbursts of merriment engendered by the fumes of the punch.