Thus summoned, Mademoiselle Marie emerged from between the two young women, and curtsied demurely.

In the meanwhile, the little old gentleman who had ushered as in was bustling about the room, shaking hands with every one, and complimenting the ladies.

“Ah, Madame Desjardins,” he said, addressing the stout lady in the hat, “enchanted to see you back from the sea-side!—­you and your charming daughter.  I do not know which looks the more young and blooming.”

Then, turning to the grim lady in black:—­

“And I am charmed to pay my homage to Madame de Montparnasse.  I had the pleasure of being present at the brilliant debut of Madame’s gifted daughter the other evening at the private performance of the pupils of the Conservatoire.  Mademoiselle Honoria inherits the grand air, Madame, from yourself.”

Then, to the plump gentleman with the shirt-front:—­

“And Monsieur Philomene!—­this is indeed a privilege and a pleasure.  Bad weather, Monsieur Philomene, for the voice!”

Then, to the two girls:—­

“Mesdemoiselles—­Achille Dorinet prostrates himself at the feet of youth, beauty, and talent!  Mademoiselle Honoria, I salute in you the future Empress of the tragic stage.  Mademoiselle Rosalie, modesty forbids me to extol the acquired graces of even my most promising pupil; but I may be permitted to adore in you the graces of nature.”

While I was listening to these scraps of salutation, Mueller was murmuring tender nothings in the ear of the fair Marie, and Madame Marotte was pouring out the coffee.

Monsieur Achille Dorinet, having gone the round of the company, next addressed himself to me.

“Permit me, Monsieur,” he said, bringing his heels together and punctuating his sentences with little bows, “permit me, in the absence of a master of the ceremonies, to introduce myself—­Achille Dorinet, Achille Dorinet, whose name may not, perhaps, be wholly unknown to you in connection with the past glories of the classical ballet.  Achille Dorinet, formerly premier sujet of the Opera Francais—­now principal choreographic professor at the Conservatoire Imperiale de Musique.  I have had the honor, Monsieur, of dancing at Erfurth before their Imperial Majesties the Emperors Napoleon and Alexander, and a host of minor sovereigns.  Those, Monsieur, were the high and palmy days of the art.  We performed a ballet descriptive of the siege of Troy, and I undertook the part of a river god—­the god Scamander, en effet.  The great ladies of the court, Monsieur, were graciously pleased to admire my proportions as the god Scamander.  I wore a girdle of sedges, a wreath of water-lilies, and a scarf of blue and silver.  I have reason to believe that the costume became me.”

“Sir,” I replied gravely, “I do not doubt it.”

“It is a noble art, Monsieur, l’art de la dame” said the former premier sujet, with a sigh; “but it is on the decline.  Of the grand style of fifty years ago, only myself and tradition remain.”