Here, despite the noise, the dust, the braying of an abominable band, the overwhelming smell of lamp-oil, and the clatter, not only of heavy walking-boots, but even of several pairs of sabots upon an uneven floor of loosely-joined planks—­ma tante, being disposed of in a safe corner, went soundly to sleep.

It was a large booth, somewhat over-full; and the company consisted mainly of Parisian blue blouses, little foot-soldiers, grisettes (for there were grisettes in those days, and plenty of them), with a sprinkling of farm-boys and dairy-maids from the villages round about.  We found this select society caracoling round the booth in a thundering galop, on first going in.  After the galop, the conductor announced a valse a deux temps.  The band struck up—­one—­two—­three.  Away went some thirty couples—­away went Mueller and the fair Marie—­and away went the chronicler of this modest biography with a pretty little girl in green boots who waltzed remarkably well, and who deserted him in the middle of the dance for a hideous little French soldier about four feet and a half high.

After this rebuff (having learned, notwithstanding my friend’s representations to the contrary, that a train ran from Courbevoie to Paris every half-hour up till midnight) I slipped away, leaving Mueller and ma cousine in the midst of a furious flirtation, and Madame Marotte fast asleep in her corner.

The clocks were just striking twelve as I passed under the archway leading to the Cite Bergere.

“Tiens!” said the fat concierge, as she gave me my key and my candle.  “Monsieur has perhaps been to the theatre this evening?  No!—­to the country—­to the fete at Courbevoie!  Ah, then, I’ll be sworn that M’sieur has had plenty of fun!”

But had I had plenty of fun?  That was the question.  That Mueller had had plenty of flirting and plenty of fun was a fact beyond the reach of doubt.  But a flirtation, after all, unless in a one-act comedy, is not entertaining to the mere looker-on; and oh! must not those bridesmaids who sometimes accompany a happy couple in their wedding-tour, have a dreary time of it?

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE ECOLE DE NATATION.

It seemed to me that I had but just closed my eyes, when I was waked by a hand upon my shoulder, and a voice calling me by my name.  I started up to find the early sunshine pouring in at the window, and Franz Mueller standing by my bedside.

“Tiens!” said he.  “How lovely are the slumbers of innocence!  I was hesitating, mon cher, whether to wake or sketch you.”

I muttered something between a growl and a yawn, to the effect that I should have been better satisfied if he had left me alone.

“You prefer everything that is basely self-indulgent, young man,” replied Mueller, making a divan of my bed, and coolly lighting his pipe under my very nose.  “Contrary to all the laws of bon-camaraderie, you stole away last night, leaving your unprotected friend in the hands of the enemy.  And for what?—­for the sake of a few hours’ ignominious oblivion!  Look at me—­I have not been to bed all night, and I am as lively as a lobster in a lobster-pot.”