“Gentlemen,” said he, “are you sure there is no mistake? is all this really for me?”

“Are you M. Robert Briquet?”

“Himself.”

“Then we are at your service, monsieur,” said the leader of the band, giving the sign to recommence.

“Certainly it is unintelligible,” thought Chicot.  He looked around; all the inhabitants of the street were at their windows, excepting those of the opposite house, which, as we have said, remained dark and quiet.  But on glancing downward, he saw a man wrapped in a dark cloak, and who wore a black hat with a red feather, leaning against the portico of his own door, and looking earnestly at the opposite house.

The leader of the band just then quitted his post and spoke softly to this man, and Chicot instantly guessed that here lay all the interest of the scene.  Soon after, a gentleman on horseback, followed by two squires, appeared at the corner of the street, and pushed his way through the crowd, while the music stopped.

“M. de Joyeuse,” murmured Chicot, who recognized him at once.

The cavalier approached the gentleman under the balcony.

“Well!  Henri,” said he, “what news?”

“Nothing, brother.”—­“Nothing?”

“No; she has not even appeared.”

“They have not made noise enough.”

“They have roused all the neighborhood.”

“They did not cry as I told them, that it was all in honor of this bourgeois.”

“They cried it so loud, that there he is, sitting in his balcony, listening.”

“And she has not appeared?”

“Neither she, nor any one.”

“The idea was ingenious, however, for she might, like the rest of the people, have profited by the music given to her neighbor.”

“Ah! you do not know her, brother.”

“Yes, I do; or at all events I know women, and as she is but a woman, we will not despair.”

“Ah! you say that in a discouraged tone, brother.”

“Not at all; only give the bourgeois his serenade every night.”

“But she will go away.”

“Not if you do not speak to her, or seem to be doing it on her account, and remain concealed.  Has the bourgeois spoken?”

“Yes, and he is now speaking again.”

“Hold your tongue up there and go in,” cried Joyeuse, out of humor.  “Diable! you have had your serenade, so keep quiet.”

“My serenade! that is just what I want to know the meaning of; to whom is it addressed?”

“To your daughter.”

“I have none.”—­“To your wife, then.”

“Thank God, I am not married.”

“Then to yourself, and if you do not go in—­” cried Joyeuse, advancing with a menacing air.

“Ventre de biche! but if the music be for me—­”

“Old fool!” growled Joyeuse.  “If you do not go in and hide your ugly face they shall break their instruments over your head.”

“Let the man alone, brother,” said Henri, “the fact is, he must be very much astonished.”