“And yet, madame,” replies Madame Lupot, “I bought it, not two days ago, in the Rue St Martin.”

“Well, madame—­Is that the street you go to for the fashions?  Go to Mademoiselle Alexina Larose Carrefous Gaillon—­you’ll get delicious caps there—­new fashions and every thing so tasteful:  for Heaven’s sake, madame, never put on that cap again.  You look, at least, a hundred.”

“It’s worth one’s while, truly,” thought Madame Lupot, “to tire one’s self to death receiving people, to be treated to such pretty compliments.”

Her husband, in the meanwhile, continued his labours in pursuit of the rejected sandwiches.

The big man in spectacles, who wondered that people could live in the Rue Grenetat, had no idea, nevertheless, of coming there for nothing.  He has seated himself in an arm-chair in the middle of the room, and informs the company that he is going to repeat a few lines of his own to them.—­The society seems by no means enchanted with the announcement, but forms itself in a circle, to listen to the poet.  He coughs and spits, wipes his mouth, tales a pinch of snuff, sneezes, has the lamps raised, the doors shut, asks a tumbler of sugar and water, and passes his hand through his hair.  After continuing these operations for some minutes, the literary man at last begins.  He spouts his verses in a voice enough to break the glasses; before he has spoken a minute, he has presented a tremendous picture of crimes, and deaths, and scaffolds, sufficient to appal the stoutest hearts, when suddenly a great crash from the inner room attracts universal attention.  It is the young Ascanius, who was trying to get a muffin on the top of a pile of dishes, and has upset the table, with muffin, and dishes, and all on his own head.  M. Lupot runs off to ascertain the cause of the dreadful cries of his son; the company follow him, not a little rejoiced to find an excuse for hearing no more of the poem; and the poet, deprived in this way of an audience, gets up in a furious passion, takes his hat, and rushes from the room, exclaiming—­“It serves me right.  How could I have been fool enough to recite good verses in the Rue Grenetat!”

Ascanius is brought in and roars lustily, for two of the dishes have been broken on his nose; and as there is no chance now, either of poetry or music, the party have recourse to cards—­for it is impossible to sit all night and do nothing.

They make up a table at bouillote, and another at ecarte.  M. Lupot takes his place at the latter.  He is forced to cover all the bets when his side refuses; and M. Lupot, who never played higher than shilling stakes in his life, is horrified when they tell him—­“You must lay down fifteen francs to equal our stakes.”

“Fifteen francs!” says M. Lupot, “what is the meaning of all this?”

“It means, that you must make up the stakes of your side, to what we have put down on this.  The master of the house is always expected to make up the difference.”