“Oh, we shall find them presently.  You seem interested.”

“I am.  I mean to dance with the bride and make the bridegroom jealous.”

We laughed and passed on, peeping into every arbor, observing every group, and turning to stare at every pretty girl we met.  My own aptitude in the acquisition of these arts of gallantry astonished myself.  Now, we passed a couple of soldiers playing at dominoes; now a noisy party round a table in the open air covered with bottles; now an arbor where half a dozen young men and three or four girls were assembled round a bowl of blazing punch.  The girls were protesting they dare not drink it, but were drinking it, nevertheless, with exceeding gusto.

“Grisettes and commis voyageurs!” said Dalrymple, contemptuously.  “Let us go and look at the dancers.”

We went on, and stood in the shelter of some trees near the orchestra.  The players consisted of three violins, a clarionette and a big drum.  The big drum was an enthusiastic performer.  He belabored his instrument as heartily as if it had been his worst enemy, but with so much independence of character that he never kept the same time as his fellow-players for two minutes together.  They were playing a polka for the benefit of some twelve or fifteen couples, who were dancing with all their might in the space before the orchestra.  On they came, round and round and never weary, two at a time—­a mechanic and a grisette, a rustic and a Normandy girl, a tall soldier and a short widow, a fat tradesman and his wife, a couple of milliners assistants who preferred dancing together to not dancing at all, and so forth.

“How I wish somebody would ask me, ma mere!” said a coquettish brunette, close by, with a sidelong glance at ourselves.”

“You shall dance with your brother Paul, my dear, as soon as he comes,” replied her mother, a stout bourgeoise with a green fan.

“But it is such dull work to dance with one’s brother!” pouted the brunette.  “If it were one’s cousin, even, it would be different.”

Mr. Frank Sullivan flung away his cigar, and began buttoning up his gloves.

“I’ll take that damsel out immediately,” said he.  “A girl who objects to dance with her brother deserves encouragement.”

So away he went with his hat inclining jauntily on one side, and, having obtained the mother’s permission, whirled away with the pretty brunette into the very thickest of the throng.

“There they are!” said Dalrymple, suddenly.  “There’s the wedding party. Per Bacco! but our little bride is charming!”

“And the bridegroom is a handsome specimen of rusticity.”

“Yes—­a genuine pastoral pair, like a Dresden china shepherd and shepherdess.  See, the girl is looking up in his face—­he shakes his head.  She is urging him to dance, and he refuses!  Never mind, ma belle—­you shall have your valse, and Corydon may be as cross as he pleases!”