In less than a quarter of an hour we were all four established round one of Madame Choucru’s comfortable little dining-tables, in a snug recess at the farthest end of the salon.  Here, being well out of reach of our hostess’s black eyes, Mueller assumed all the airs of a liberal entertainer.  He hung up ma cousine’s bonnet; fetched a footstool for ma tante; criticised the sauces; presided over the wine; cut jokes with the waiter; and pretended to have ordered every dish beforehand.  The stewed kidneys with mushrooms were provided especially for Madame Marotte; the fricandeau was selected in honor of Mam’selle Marie (had he not an innate presentiment that she loved fricandeau?); and as for the soles au gratin, he swore, in defiance of probability and all the laws of nature, that they were the very fish we had just caught in the Seine.  By-and-by came Monsieur Choucru’s famous cheese souffle; and then, with a dish of fruit, four cups of coffee, and four glasses of liqueure, the banquet came to an end.

As we sat at desert, Mueller pulled out his book and pencilled a rapid but flattering sketch of the dining-room interior, developing a perspective as long as the Rue de Rivoli, and a mobilier at least equal in splendor to that of the Trois Freres.

At sight of this chef d’oeuvre, Madame Choucru was moved almost to tears.  Ah, Heaven! if Monsieur could only figure to himself her admiration for his beau talent!  But alas! that was impossible—­as impossible as that Monsieur Choucru should ever repay this unheard-of obligation!

Mueller laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed profoundly.

“Ah!  Madame,” he said, “it is not to Monsieur Choucru that I look for repayment—­it is to you.”

“To me, Monsieur? Dieu merci!  Monsieur se moque de moi!”

And the Dame de Comptoir, intrenched behind her fruits and liqueure bottles, shot a Parthian glance from under her black eye-lashes, and made believe to blush.

“Yes, Madame, to you.  I only ask permission to come again very soon, for the purpose of executing a little portrait of Madame—­a little portrait which, alas! must fail to render adequate justice to such a multitude of charms.”

And with this choice compliment, Mueller bowed again, took his leave, bestowed a whole franc upon the astonished waiter, and departed from the Toison d’Or in an atmosphere of glory.

The fair, or rather that part of the fair where the dancers and diners most did congregate, was all ablaze with lights, and noisy with brass bands as we came out. Ma tante, who was somewhat tired, and had been dozing for the last half hour over her coffee and liqueure, was impatient to get back to Paris.  The fair Marie, who was not tired at all, confessed that she should enjoy a waltz above everything.  While Mueller, who professed to be an animated time-table, swore that we were just too late for the ten minutes past ten train, and that there would be no other before eleven forty-five.  So Madame Marotte was carried off, bon gre, mal gre, to a dancing-booth, where gentlemen were admitted on payment of forty centimes per head, and ladies went in free.