“Oh yes! papa,” she said, “invite as many as you can, I will learn to play some country-dances that we may have a ball, and finish my head of Belisarius—­you must get it framed for the occasion.”

And the little Ascanius whooped and hollo’d in the middle of the room.  “I shall have tea and punch and cakes.  I’ll eat every thing!”

After this conversation M. Lupot had set to work.  He went to his friends and his friends’ friends—­to people he hardly knew, and invited them to his party, begging them to bring any body with them they liked.  M. Lupot had formerly sold rose-coloured paper to a musician, and drawing pencils to an artist.  He went to his ancient customers, and pressed them to come and to bring their professional friends with them.  In short, M. Lupot was so prodigiously active that in four days he had run through nearly the whole of Paris, caught an immense cold, and spent seven shillings in cab hire.  Giving an entertainment has its woes as well as its pleasures.

The grand day, or rather the grand evening, at last arrived.  All the lamps were lighted, and they had even borrowed some from their neighbours; for Celanire had discovered that their own three lamps did not give light enough both for the public-room and the supper-room—­(which on ordinary occasions was a bed-chamber.) It was the first time that M. Lupot had borrowed any thing—­but also it was the first time that M. Lupot gave a soiree.

From the dawn of day M. Lupot was busy in preparation:  He had ordered in cakes and refreshments; bought sundry packs of cards, brushed the tables, and tucked up the curtains.  Madame Lupot had sat all the time quietly on the sofa, ejaculating from time to time, “I’m afraid ’twill be a troublesome business all this receiving company.”

Celanire had finished her Belisarius, who was an exact likeness of Blue Beard, and whom they had honoured with a Gothic frame, and placed in a conspicuous part of the room.  Mademoiselle Lupot was dressed with amazing care.  She had a new gown, her hair plaited a la Clotilde.  All this must make a great sensation.  Ascanius was rigged out in his best; but this did not hinder him from kicking up a dust in the room, from getting up on the furniture, handling the cards, and taking them to make houses; from opening the cupboards, and laying his fingers on the cakes.

Sometimes M. Lupot’s patience gave way, and he cried, “Madame, I beg you’ll make your son be quiet.”  But Madame Lupot answered without turning her head, “Make him quiet yourself, M. Lupot—­You know very well it’s your business to manage him.”