We all laughed as if this was the best joke we had heard in our lives, and Dalrymple filled the glasses up again.

“What, in the name of all that’s mischievous, can have become of Sullivan?” said he to me.  “I have not caught so much as a glimpse of him for the last hour.”

“When I last saw him, he was dancing.”

“Yes, with a pretty little dark-eyed girl in a blue dress.  By Jove! that fellow will be getting into trouble if left to himself!”

“But the girl has her mother with her!”

“All the stronger probability of a scrimmage,” replied Dalrymple, sipping his punch with a covert glance of salutation at Suzette.

“Shall I see if they are among the dancers?”

“Do—­but make haste; for the punch is disappearing fast.”

I left them, and went back to the platform where the indefatigable public was now engaged in the performance of quadrilles.  Never, surely, were people so industrious in the pursuit of pleasure!  They poussetted, bowed, curtsied, joined hands, and threaded the mysteries of every figure, as if their very lives depended on their agility.

“Look at Jean Thomas,” said a young girl to her still younger companion.  “He dances like an angel!”

The one thus called upon to admire, looked at Jean Thomas, and sighed.

“He never asks me, by any chance,” said she, sadly, “although his mother and mine are good neighbors.  I suppose I don’t dance well enough—­or dress well enough,” she added, glancing at her friend’s gay shawl and coquettish cap.

“He has danced with me twice this evening,” said the first speaker triumphantly; “and he danced with me twice last Sunday at the Jardin d’Armide.  Elise says....”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, and I heard no more.  It was a passing glimpse behind the curtain—­a peep at one of the many dramas of real life that are being played for ever around us.  Here were all the elements of romance—­love, admiration, vanity, envy.  Here was a hero in humble life—­a lady-killer in his own little sphere.  He dances with one, neglects another, and multiplies his conquests with all the heartlessness of a gentleman.

I wandered round the platform once or twice, scrutinizing the dancers, but without success.  There was no sign of Sullivan, or of his partner, or of his partner’s mother, the bourgeoise with the green fan.  I then went to the grotto of the fortune-teller, but it was full of noisy rustics; and thence to the lottery hall, where there were plenty of players, but not those of whom I was in search.

“Wheel of fortune, Messieurs et Mesdames,” said the young lady behind the counter.  “Only fifty centimes each.  All prizes, and no blanks—­try your fortune, monsieur le capitaine! Put it once, monsieur le capitaine; once for yourself, and once for madame.  Only fifty centimes each, and the certainty of winning!”