“Bravo! bravo!”

“She is sixty years old, and has more thousands of francs-a-year than she has hair in her gray moustache or wrinkles on her face; she is so superbly fat that one of her gowns would serve as a tent for this honorable company.  I hope to present my future spouse to you on Shrove Tuesday, in the costume of a shepherdess that has just devoured her flock.  Some of them wish to convert her—­but I have undertaken to divert her, which she will like better.  You must help me to plunge her headlong into all sorts of skylarking jollity.”

“We will plunge her into anything you please.”

“She shall dance like sixty!” said Rose-Pompon, humming a popular tune.

“She will overawe the police.”

“We can say to them:  ’Respect this lady; your mother will perhaps be as old some day!’”

Suddenly, the Bacchanal Queen rose; her countenance wore a singular expression of bitter and sardonic delight.  In one hand she held a glass full to the brim.  “I hear the Cholera is approaching in his seven-league boots,” she cried.  “I drink luck to the Cholera!” And she emptied the bumper.

Notwithstanding the general gayety, these words made a gloomy impression; a sort of electric shudder ran through the assemblage, and nearly every countenance became suddenly serious.

“Oh, Cephyse!” said Jacques, in a tone of reproach.

“Luck to the Cholera,” repeated the Queen, fearlessly.  “Let him spare those who wish to live, and kill together those who dread to part!”

Jacques and Cephyse exchanged a rapid glance, unnoticed by their joyous companions, and for some time the Bacchanal Queen remained silent and thoughtful.

“If you put it that way, it is different,” cried Rose-Pompon, boldly.  “To the Cholera! may none but good fellows be left on earth!”

In spite of this variation, the impression was still painfully impressive.  Dumoulin, wishing to cut short this gloomy subject, exclaimed:  “Devil take the dead, and long live the living!  And, talking of chaps who both live and live well, I ask you to drink a health most dear to our joyous queen, the health of our Amphitryon.  Unfortunately, I do not know his respectable name, having only had the advantage of making his acquaintance this night; he will excuse me, then, if I confine myself to proposing the health of Sleepinbuff—­a name by no means offensive to my modesty, as Adam never slept in any other manner.  I drink to Sleepinbuff.”

“Thanks, old son!” said Jacques, gayly; “were I to forget your name, I should call you ‘Have-a-sip?’ and I am sure that you would answer:  ’I will.’”

“I will directly!” said Dumoulin, making the military salute with one hand, and holding out the bowl with the other.

“As we have drunk together,” resumed Sleepinbuff, cordially, “we ought to know each other thoroughly.  I am Jacques Rennepont?”

“Rennepont!” cried Dumoulin, who appeared struck by the name, in spite of his half-drunkenness; “you are Rennepont?”