Night and Morning, Volume 3. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

one of the bon-bon crackers with Mademoiselle Adele.

      "I've got the motto!—no—Monsieur has it: I'm always unlucky," said the gentle Adele.

      The epicier solemnly unrolled the little slip of paper; the print was very small, and he longed to take out his spectacles, but he thought that would make him look old. However, he spelled through the motto with some difficulty:—

      "Comme elle fait soumettre un coeur,

      En refusant son doux hommage,

      On peut traiter la coquette en vainqueur;

      De la beauty modeste on cherit l'esclavage."

      [The coquette, who subjugates a heart, yet refuses its tender homage, one may treat as a conqueror: of modest beauty we cherish the slavery.]

      "I present it to Mademoiselle," said he, laying the motto solemnly in Adele's plate, upon a little mountain of chestnut-husks.

      "It is very pretty," said she, looking down.

      "It is very a propos," whispered the epicier, caressing the peruque a little too roughly in his emotion. Mr. Love gave him a kick under the table, and put his finger to his own bald head, and then to his nose, significantly. The intelligent epicier smoothed back the irritated peruque.

      "Are you fond of bon-bons, Mademoiselle Adele? I have a very fine stock at home," said Monsieur Goupille. Mademoiselle Adele de Courval sighed: "Helas! they remind me of happier days, when I was a petite and my dear grandmamma took me in her lap and told me how she escaped the guillotine: she was an emigree, and you know her father was a marquis."

      The epicier bowed and looked puzzled. He did not quite see the connection between the bon-bons and the guillotine. "You are triste, Monsieur," observed Madame Beavor, in rather a piqued tone, to the Pole, who had not said a word since the roti.

      "Madame, an exile is always triste: I think of my pauvre pays."

      "Bah!" cried Mr. Love. "Think that there is no exile by the side of a belle dame."

      The Pole smiled mournfully.

      "Pull it," said Madame Beavor, holding a cracker to the patriot, and turning away her face.

      "Yes, madame; I wish it were a cannon in defence of La Pologne."

      With this magniloquent aspiration, the gallant Sovolofski pulled lustily, and then rubbed his fingers, with a little grimace, observing that crackers were sometimes dangerous, and that the present combustible was d'une force immense.

      "Helas! J'ai cru jusqu'a ce jour

      Pouvoir triompher de l'amour,"

      [Alas! I believed until to-day that I could triumph over love.]

      said Madame Beavor, reading the motto. "What do you say to that?"

      "Madame, there is no triumph for La Pologne!" Madame Beavor uttered a little peevish exclamation, and glanced in despair at her red-headed countryman. "Are you, too, a great politician, sir?" said she in English.

      "No, mem!—I'm all for the ladies."

      "What does he say?" asked Madame Caumartin.

      "Monsieur Higgins est tout pour les dames."

      "To be sure he is," cried Mr. Love; "all the English are, especially with that coloured hair; a lady who likes a passionate adorer should always marry a man with gold-coloured hair—always. What do you say, Mademoiselle Adele?"

      "Oh, I like fair hair," said Mademoiselle, looking bashfully askew at Monsieur Goupille's peruque. "Grandmamma said her papa—the marquis— used yellow powder: it must have been very pretty."

      "Rather a la sucre d' orge," remarked the epicier, smiling on the right side of his mouth, where his best teeth were. Mademoiselle de Courval looked displeased. "I fear you are a republican, Monsieur Goupille."

      "I, Mademoiselle. No; I'm for the Restoration;" and again the epicier perplexed himself to discover the association of idea between republicanism and sucre d'orge.

      "Another glass of wine. Come, another," said Mr. Love, stretching across the Vicomte to help Madame Canmartin.

      "Sir," said the tall Frenchman with the riband, eying the epicier with great disdain, "you say you are for the Restoration—I am for the Empire —Moi!"

      "No politics!" cried Mr. Love. "Let us adjourn to the salon."

      The Vicomte, who had seemed supremely ennuye during this dialogue, plucked Mr. Love by the sleeve as he rose, and whispered petulantly, "I do not see any one here to suit me, Monsieur Love—none of my rank."

      "Mon Dieu!" answered Mr. Love: "point d' argent point de Suisse. I could introduce you to a duchess, but then the fee is high. There's Mademoiselle de Courval—she dates from the Carlovingians."

      "She is very like a boiled sole," answered the Vicomte, with a wry face.

      "Still-what dower has she?"

      "Forty thousand francs, and sickly," replied Mr. Love; "but she likes a tall man, and Monsieur Goupille is—"

      "Tall men are never well made," interrupted the Vicomte, angrily; and he drew himself aside as Mr. Love, gallantly advancing, gave his arm to Madame Beavor, because the Pole had, in rising, folded both his own arms across his breast.

      "Excuse me, ma'am," said Mr. Love to Madame Beavor, as they adjourned to the salon, "I don't think you manage that brave man well."

      "Ma foi, comme il est ennuyeux avec sa Pologne," replied Madame Beavor, shrugging her shoulders.

      "True; but he is a very fine-shaped man; and it is a comfort to think that one will have no rival but his country. Trust me, and encourage him a little more; I think he would suit you to a T."

      Here the attendant engaged for the evening announced Monsieur and Madame Giraud; whereupon there entered a little—little couple, very fair, very plump, and very like each other. This was Mr. Love's show couple—his decoy ducks—his last best example of match-making; they had been married two months out of the bureau, and were the admiration of the neighbourhood for their conjugal affection. As they were now united, they had ceased to frequent the table d'hote; but Mr. Love often invited them after the dessert, pour encourager les autres.

      "My dear friends," cried Mr. Love, shaking each by the hand, "I am ravished to see you. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Monsieur and Madame Giraud. the happiest couple in Christendom;—if I had done nothing else in my life but bring them together I should not have lived in vain!"

      The company eyed the objects of this eulogium with great attention.

      "Monsieur, my prayer is to deserve my bonheur," said Monsieur Giraud.

      "Cher ange!" murmured Madame: and the happy pair seated themselves next to each other.

      Mr. Love, who was all for those innocent pastimes which do away with conventional formality and reserve, now proposed a game at "Hunt the Slipper," which was welcomed by the whole party, except the Pole and the Vicomte; though Mademoiselle Adele looked prudish, and observed to the epicier, "that Monsieur Lofe was so droll, but she should not have liked her pauvre grandmaman to see her."

      The Vicomte had stationed himself opposite to Mademoiselle de Courval, and kept his eyes fixed on her very tenderly.

      "Mademoiselle, I see, does not approve of such bourgeois diversions," said he.

      "No, monsieur," said the gentle Adele. "But I think we must sacrifice our own tastes to those of the company."

      "It is a very amiable sentiment," said the epicier.

      "It is one attributed to grandmamma's papa, the Marquis de Courval. It has become quite a hackneyed remark since," said Adele.

      "Come, ladies," said the joyous Rosalie; "I volunteer my slipper."

      "Asseyez-vous donc,"