Monsieur le capitaine was a great, rawboned corporal, with a pretty little maid-servant on his arm.  The flattery was not very delicate; but it succeeded.  He threw down a franc.  The wheel flew round, the papers were drawn, and the corporal won a needle-case, and the maid-servant a cigar-holder.  In the midst of the laugh to which this distribution gave rise, I walked away in the direction of the refreshment stalls.  Here were parties supping substantially, dancers drinking orgeat and lemonade, and little knots of tradesmen and mechanics sipping beer ridiculously out of wine-glasses to an accompaniment of cakes and sweet-biscuits.  Still I could see no trace of Mr. Frank Sullivan.

At length I gave up the search in despair, and on my way back encountered Master Philippe leaning against a tree, and looking exceedingly helpless and unwell.

“You ate too many eggs, Philippe,” said his mother.  “I told you so at the time.”

“It—­it wasn’t the eggs,” faltered the wretched Philippe.  “It was the Russian swing.”

“And serve you rightly, too,” said his father angrily.  “I wish with all my heart that you had had your favorite oysters as well!”

When I came back to the arbor, I found the little party immensely happy, and a fresh bowl of punch just placed upon the table.  Andre was sitting next to Suzette, as proud as a king.  Madame Roquet, volubly convivial, was talking to every one.  Madame Robineau was silently disposing of all the biscuits and punch that came in her way.  Monsieur Robineau, with his hat a little pushed back and his thumb in the arm-hole of his waistcoat, was telling a long story to which nobody listened; while Dalrymple, sitting on the other side of the bride, was gallantly doing the duties of entertainer.

He looked up—­I shook my head, slipped back into my place, and listened to the tangled threads of conversation going on around me.

“And so,” said Monsieur Robineau, proceeding with his story, and staring down into the bottom of his empty glass, “and so I said to myself, ’Robineau, mon ami, take care.  One honest man is better than two rogues; and if thou keepest thine eyes open, the devil himself stands small chance of cheating thee!’ So I buttoned up my coat—­this very coat I have on now, only that I have re-lined and re-cuffed it since then, and changed the buttons for brass ones; and brass buttons for one’s holiday coat, you know, look so much more comme il faut—­and said to the landlord....”

“Another glass of punch, Monsieur Robineau,” interrupted Dalrymple.

“Thank you, M’sieur, you are very good; well, as I was saying....”

“Ah, bah, brother Jacques!” exclaimed Madame Roquet, impatiently, “don’t give us that old story of the miller and the gray colt, this evening!  We’ve all heard it a hundred times already.  Sing us a song instead, mon ami!”

“I shall be happy to sing, sister Marie,” replied Monsieur Robineau, with somewhat husky dignity, “when I have finished my story.  You may have heard the story before.  So may Andre—­so may Suzette—­so may my wife.  I admit it.  But these gentlemen—­these gentlemen who have never heard it, and who have done me the honor....”