“Monsieur,” he said, haughtily, “that is an expression which I must request you to retract.  I have already assured you, on the word of a gentleman....”

“A gentleman, indeed!  A pretty gentleman!  He takes my portrait, and....”

“I have not taken your portrait, Monsieur.”

“Good heavens!” cried the old gentleman, looking round, “was ever such assurance!  Did not every one present see him in the act?  I appeal to every one—­to you, Monsieur—­to you, Mesdames,—­to you, reverend father,—­did you not all see this person taking my portrait?”

“Nay, then, if it must come to this,” said Mueller, “let the sketch be evidence, and let these ladies and gentlemen decide whether it is really the portrait of Monsieur—­and if they think it like?”

Saying which, he held up the book, and displayed a head, sketched, it is true, with admirable spirit and cleverness, but—­the head of an ass, with a thistle in its mouth!

A simultaneous explosion of mirth followed.  Even the priest laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and Dalrymple, heavy-hearted as he was, could not help joining in the general shout.  As for the old gentleman, the victim of this elaborate practical joke, he glared at us all round, swore that it was a premeditated insult from beginning to end, and, swelling with suppressed rage, flung himself back into his corner, and looked resolutely in the opposite direction.

By this time we were half-way to Paris, and the student, satisfied with his success, packed up his folio, brought out a great meerschaum with a snaky tube, and smoked like a factory-chimney.

When we alighted, it was nearly five o’clock.

“What shall we do next?” said Dalrymple, pulling drearily at his moustache.  “I am so deuced dull to-day that I am ashamed to ask anybody to do me the charity to dine with me—­especially a bon garcon like Herr Mueller.”

“Don’t be ashamed,” said the student, laughingly, “I would dine with Pluto himself, if the dishes were good and my appetite as sharp as to-day.”

“Allons, then!  Where shall we go; to the Trois Freres, or the Moulin Rouge, or the Maison Doree?”

“The Trois Freres” said Mueller, with the air of one who deliberates on the fate of nations, “has the disadvantage of being situated in the Palais Royal, where the band still continues to play at half-past five every afternoon.  Now, music should come on with the sweets and the champagne.  It is not appropriate with soup or fish, and it distracts one’s attention if injudiciously administered with the made dishes,”

“True.  Then shall we try the Moulin Rouge?”

Mueller shook his head.

“At the Moulin Rouge” said he, gravely, “one can breakfast well; but their dinners are stereotyped.  For the last ten years they have not added a new dish to their carte; and the discovery of a new dish, says Brillat Savarin, is of more importance to the human race than the discovery of a new planet.  No—­I should not vote for the Moulin Rouge.”