“Not to listen to a word of it,” said Madame Robineau, sharply.  “There, you are answered, husband.  Drink your punch, and hold your tongue.”

Monsieur Robineau waved his hand majestically, and assumed a Parliamentary air.

“Madame Robineau,” he said, getting more and more husky, “be so obliging as to wait till I ask for your advice.  With regard to drinking my punch, I have drunk it—­” and here he again stared down into the bottom of his glass, which was again empty—­“and with regard to holding my tongue, that is my business, and—­and....”

“Monsieur Robineau,” said Dalrymple, “allow me to offer you some more punch.”

“Not another drop, Jacques,” said Madame, sternly.  “You have had too much already.”

Poor Monsieur Robineau, who had put out his glass to be refilled, paused and looked helplessly at his wife.

“Mon cher ange,....” he began; but she shook her head inflexibly, and Monsieur Robineau submitted with the air of a man who knows that from the sentence of the supreme court there is no appeal.

“Dame!” whispered Madame Roquet, with a confidential attack upon my ribs that gave me a pain in my side for half an hour after, “my brother has the heart of a rabbit.  He gives way to her in everything—­so much the worse for him.  My blessed man, who was a saint of a husband, would have broken the bowl over my ears if I had dared to interfere between his glass and his mouth!”

Whereupon Madame Roquet filled her own glass and mine, and Madame Robineau, less indulgent to her husband than herself, followed our example.

Just at this moment, a confused hubbub of voices, and other sounds expressive of a fracas, broke out in the direction of the trees behind the orchestra.  The dancers deserted their polka, the musicians stopped fiddling, the noisy supper-party in the next arbor abandoned their cold chicken and salad, and everybody ran to the scene of action.  Dalrymple was on his feet in a moment; but Suzette held Andre back with both hands and implored him to stay.

“Some mauvais sujets, no doubt, who refuse to pay the score,” suggested Madame Roquet.

“Or Sullivan, who has got into one of his infernal scrapes,” muttered Dalrymple, with a determined wrench at his moustache.  “Come on, anyhow, and let us see what is the matter!”

So we snatched up our hats and ran out, just as Monsieur Robineau seized the opportunity to drink another tumbler of punch when his wife was not looking.

Following in the direction of the rest, we took one of the paths behind the orchestra, and came upon a noisy crowd gathered round a wooden summer-house.

“It’s a fight,” said one.

“It’s a pickpocket,” said another.

“Bah! it’s only a young fellow who has been making love to a girl,” exclaimed a third.