“Oh, by—­by all means—­with pleasure,” faltered the proprietaire.

“For how many copies, Monsieur Choucru?  Shall we say—­six?”

Monsieur looked at Madame.  Madame nodded.  Mueller took out his pocket-book, and waited, pencil in hand.

“Eh—­parbleu!—­let it be for six, then,” said Monsieur Choucru, somewhat reluctantly.

Mueller made the entry, shut up the pocket-book, and shook hands boisterously with his victim.

“My dear Monsieur Choucru,” he said, “I cannot tell you how gratifying this is to my feelings, or with what disinterested satisfaction I shall make your establishment known to the Parisian public.  You shall be immortalized, my dear fellow—­positively immortalized!”

“Bien oblige, M’sieur—­bien oblige.  Will you not let my wife offer you a glass of liqueure?”

“Liqueure, mon cher!” exclaimed Mueller, with an outburst of frank cordiality—­“hang liqueure!—­WE’LL DINE WITH YOU!”

“Monsieur shall be heartily welcome to the best dinner the Toison d’Or can send up; and his friend also,” said Madame, with her sweetest smile.

“Ah, Madame!”

“And M’sieur Choucru shall make you one of his famous cheese souffles. Tiens, mon bon, go down and prepare a cheese souffle for two.”

Mueller smote his forehead distractedly.

“For two!” he cried.  “Heavens!  I had forgotten my aunt and my cousin!”

Madame looked up inquiringly.

“Monsieur has forgotten something?”

“Two somethings, Madame—­two somebodies!  My aunt—­my excellent and admirable maternal aunt,—­and my cousin.  We left them sitting under a tree by the river-side, more than half an hour ago.  But the fault, Madame, is yours.”

“How, Monsieur?”

“Yes; for in your charming society I forget the ties of family and the laws of politeness.  But I hasten to fetch my forgotten relatives.  With what pleasure they will share your amiable hospitality! Au revoir, Madame.  In ten minutes we shall be with you again!”

Madame Choucru looked grave.  She had not bargained to entertain a party of four; yet she dared not disoblige the Petit Courier Illustre.  She had no time, however, to demur to the arrangement; for Mueller, ingeniously taking her acquiescence for granted, darted out of the room without waiting for an answer.

“Miserable man!” I exclaimed, as soon as we were outside the doors, “what will you do now?”

“Do!  Why, fetch my admirable maternal aunt and my interesting cousin, to be sure.”

“But you have raised a dinner under false pretences!”

“I, mon cher?  Not a bit of it.”

“Have you, then, really anything to do with the Petit Courier Illustre?”

“The Editor of the Petit Courier Illustre is one of the best fellows in the world, and occasionally (when my pockets represent that vacuum which Nature very properly abhors) he advances me a couple of Napoleons.  I wipe out the score from time to time by furnishing a design for the paper.  Now to-day, you see, I’m in luck.  I shall pay off two obligations at once—­to say nothing of Monsieur Choucru’s six-fold subscription to the P.C., on which the publishers will allow me a douceur of thirty francs.  Now, confess that I’m a man of genius!”