Madame Delicieuse’s balcony was a perfect maze of waving kerchiefs.  The General looked up for the woman of all women; she was not there.  But he remembered the other balcony, the smaller one, and cast his glance onward to it.  There he saw Madame and one other person only.  A small blue-eyed, broad-browed, scholarly-looking man whom the arch lady had lured from his pen by means of a mock professional summons, and who now stood beside her, a smile of pleasure playing on his lips and about his eyes.

“Vite!” said Madame, as the father’s eyes met the son’s.  Dr. Mossy lifted his arm and cast a bouquet of roses.  A girl in the crowd bounded forward, caught it in the air, and, blushing, handed it to the plumed giant.  He bowed low, first to the girl, then to the balcony above; and then, with a responsive smile, tossed up two splendid kisses, one to Madame, and one, it seemed—­

“For what was that cheer?”

“Why, did you not see?  General Villivicencio cast a kiss to his son.”

The staff of General Villivicencio were a faithful few who had not bowed the knee to any abomination of the Americains, nor sworn deceitfully to any species of compromise; their beloved city was presently to pass into the throes of an election, and this band, heroically unconscious of their feebleness, putting their trust in “re-actions” and like delusions, resolved to make one more stand for the traditions of their fathers.  It was concerning this that Madame Delicieuse was incidentally about to speak when interrupted by the boom of cannon; they had promised to meet at her house that evening.

They met.  With very little discussion or delay (for their minds were made up beforehand), it was decided to announce in the French-English newspaper that, at a meeting of leading citizens, it had been thought consonant with the public interest to place before the people the name of General Hercule Mossy de Villivicencio.  No explanation was considered necessary.  All had been done in strict accordance with time-honored customs, and if any one did not know it it was his own fault.  No eulogium was to follow, no editorial indorsement.  The two announcements were destined to stand next morning, one on the English side and one on the French, in severe simplicity, to be greeted with profound gratification by a few old gentlemen in blue cottonade, and by roars of laughter from a rampant majority.

As the junto were departing, sparkling Madame Delicieuse detained the General at the head of the stairs that descended into the tiled carriage-way, to wish she was a man, that she might vote for him.

“But, General,” she said, “had I not a beautiful bouquet of ladies on my balcony this morning?”

The General replied, with majestic gallantry, that “it was as magnificent as could be expected with the central rose wanting.”  And so Madame was disappointed, for she was trying to force the General to mention his son.  “I will bear this no longer; he shall not rest,” she had said to her little aunt, “until he has either kissed his son or quarrelled with him.”