It was now eight o’clock, and nobody was yet arrived.  Mademoiselle looked at her father, who looked at his wife, who looked at her cat.  The father of the family muttered every now and then—­“Are we to have our grand soiree all to ourselves?” And he cast doleful looks on his lamps, his tables, and all his splendid preparations.  Mademoiselle Celanire sighed and looked at her dress, and then looked in the mirror.  Madame Lupot was as unmoved as ever, and said, “Is this what we’ve turned every thing topsy-turvy for?” As for little Ascanius, he jumped about the room, and shouted, “If nobody comes, what lots of cakes we shall have!” At last the bell rang.  It is a family from the Rue St Denis, retired perfumers, who have only retained so much of their ancient profession, that they cover themselves all over with odours.  When they enter the room, you feel as if a hundred scent-bottles were opened at once.  There is such a smell of jasmine and vanille, that you have good luck if you get off without a headache.  Other people drop in.  M. Lupot does not know half his guests, for many of them are brought by others, and even these he scarcely knows the names of.  But he is enchanted with every thing.  A young fashionable is presented to him by some unknown third party, who says, “This is one of our first pianists, who is good enough to give up a great concert this evening to come here.”  The next is a famous singer, a lion in musical parties, who is taken out every where, and who will give one of his latest compositions, though unfortunately labouring under a cold.  This man won the first prize at the Conservatory, an unfledged Boildieu, who will be a great composer of operas—­when he can get librettos to his music, and music to his librettos.  The next is a painter.  He has shown at the exhibition—­he has had wonderful success.  To be sure nobody bought his pictures, because he didn’t wish to sell them to people that couldn’t appreciate them.  In short, M. Lupot sees nobody in his rooms that is not first-rate in some way or other.  He is delighted with the thought—­ravished, transported.  He can’t find words enough to express his satisfaction at having such geniuses in his house.  For their sakes he neglects his old friends—­he scarcely speaks to them.  It seems the new-comers, people he has never seen before, are the only people worthy of his attentions.  Madame Lupot is tired of getting up, curtsying, and sitting down again.  But her daughter is radiant with joy; her husband goes from room to room, rubbing his hands, as if he had bought all Paris, and got it a bargain.  And little Ascanius never comes out of the bed-room without his mouth full.  But it is not enough to invite a large party; you must know how to amuse them; it is a thing which very few people have the art of, even those most accustomed to have soirees.  In some you get tired, and you are in great ceremony; you must restrict yourself to a conversation that is neither open, nor friendly,