“I don’t really see how we are to do without a clock,” admitted Emile.

“And that darling little Cupid!”

Emile conceded that the Cupid was irresistible.

“Then we decide to have the clock, and do without the looking-glass?”

“Yes, we decide.”

In the meantime I had slipped the thirty-five francs into the dealer’s hand.

“You must do me the favor to accept the clock as a wedding-present, Mademoiselle Josephine,” I said.  “And I hope you will favor me with an invitation to the wedding.”

“And me also,” said Mueller; “and I shall hope to be allowed to offer a little sketch to adorn the walls of your new home.”

Their delight and gratitude were almost too great.  We shook hands again all round.  I am not sure, indeed, that Josephine did not then and there embrace us both for the second time.

“And you will both come to our wedding!” cried she.  “And we will spend the day at St. Cloud, and have a dance in the evening; and we will invite Monsieur Gustave, and Monsieur Jules, and Monsieur Adrien.  Oh, dear! how delightful it will be!”

“And you promise me the first quadrille?” said I.

“And me the second?” added Mueller.

“Yes, yes—­as many as you please.”

“Then you must let us know at what time to come, and all about it; so, till Friday week, adieu!”

And thus, with more shaking of hands, and thanks, and good wishes, we parted company, leaving them still occupied with the gilt Cupid and the furniture-broker.

After the dense atmosphere of the clothes-market, it is a relief to emerge upon the Boulevart du Temple—­the noisy, feverish, crowded Boulevart du Temple, with its half dozen theatres, its glare of gas, its cake-sellers, bill-sellers, lemonade-sellers, cabs, cafes, gendarmes, tumblers, grisettes, and pleasure-seekers of both sexes.

Here we pause awhile to applaud the performances of a company of dancing-dogs, whence we are presently drawn away by the sight of a gentleman in a moyen-age costume, who is swallowing penknives and bringing them out at his ears to the immense gratification of a large circle of bystanders.

A little farther on lies the Jardin Turc; and here we drop in for half an hour, to restore ourselves with coffee-ices, and look on at the dancers.  This done, we presently issue forth again, still in search of amusement.

“Have you ever been to the Petit Lazary?” asks my friend, as we stand at the gate of the Jardin Turc, hesitating which way to turn.

“Never; what is it?”

“The most inexpensive of theatrical luxuries—­an evening’s entertainment of the mildest intellectual calibre, and at the lowest possible cost.  Here we are at the doors.  Come in, and complete your experience of Paris life!”