A general laugh welcomed this speech.

“We have a goose!” said Minard junior.

“The carts are unloading!” cried Madame Thuillier, as “marrons glaces” and “meringues” were placed upon the table.

Mademoiselle Thuillier’s face was blazing.  She was really superb to behold.  Never did sisterly love assume such a frenzied expression.

“To those who know her, it is really touching,” remarked Madame Colleville.

The glasses were filled.  The guests all looked at one another, evidently expecting a toast, whereupon la Peyrade said:—­

“Messieurs, let us drink to something sublime.”

Everybody looked curious.

“To Mademoiselle Brigitte!”

They all rose, clinked glasses, and cried with one voice, “Mademoiselle Brigitte!” so much enthusiasm did the exhibition of a true feeling excite.

“Messieurs,” said Phellion, reading from a paper written in pencil, “To work and its splendors, in the person of our former comrade, now become one of the mayors of Paris,—­to Monsieur Minard and his wife!”

After five minutes’ general conversation Thuillier rose and said:—­

“Messieurs, To the King and the royal family!  I add nothing; the toast says all.”

“To the election of my brother!” said Mademoiselle Thuillier a moment later.

“Now I’ll make you laugh,” whispered la Peyrade in Flavie’s ear.

And he rose.

“To Woman!” he said; “that enchanting sex to whom we owe our happiness,—­not to speak of our mothers, our sisters, and our wives!”

This toast excited general hilarity, and Colleville, already somewhat gay, exclaimed:—­

“Rascal! you have stolen my speech!”

The mayor then rose; profound silence reigned.

“Messieurs, our institutions! from which come the strength and grandeur of dynastic France!”

The bottles disappeared amid a chorus of admiration as to the marvellous goodness and delicacy of their contents.

Celeste Colleville here said timidly:—­

“Mamma, will you permit me to give a toast?”

The good girl had noticed the dull, bewildered look of her godmother, neglected and forgotten,—­she, the mistress of that house, wearing almost the expression of a dog that is doubtful which master to obey, looking from the face of her terrible sister-in-law to that of Thuillier, consulting each countenance, and oblivious of herself; but joy on the face of that poor helot, accustomed to be nothing, to repress her ideas, her feelings, had the effect of a pale wintry sun behind a mist; it barely lighted her faded, flabby flesh.  The gauze cap trimmed with dingy flowers, the hair ill-dressed, the gloomy brown gown, with no ornament but a thick gold chain—­all, combined with the expression of her countenance, stimulated the affection of the young Celeste, who—­alone in the world—­knew the value of that woman condemned to silence but aware of all about her, suffering from all yet consoling herself in God and in the girl who now was watching her.