“You know well enough, Gobinet, that Celeste is my real name.”

“Yes; but it’s fancied a nickname—­when one looks in your face.”

“Gobinet, I will put that down to your account.”

“And Oscar will help you to add it up, eh?”

“Yes; and you shall see the total.  When I carry one, the remainder will not be you.”

“Celeste, you make me cry!  I only meant to say that your celestial name does not go well with your charming little face, which is still more mischievous than that of the Bacchanal Queen.”

“That’s right; wheedle me now, wretch!”

“I swear by the accursed head of my landlord, that, if you liked, you could spread yourself as much as the Bacchanal Queen—­which is saying a great deal.”

“The fact is, that the Bacchanal had cheek enough, in all conscience.”

“Not to speak of her fascinating the bobbies!”

“And magnetizing the beaks.”

“They may get as angry as they please; she always finishes by making them laugh.”

“And they all call her:  Queen!”

“Last night she charmed a slop (as modest as a country girl) whose purity took up arms against the famous dance of the Storm-blown Tulip.”

“What a quadrille!  Sleepinbuff and the Bacchanal Queen, having opposite to them Rose-Pompon and Ninny Moulin!”

“And all four making tulips as full-blown as could be!”

“By-the-bye, is it true what they say of Ninny Moulin?”

“What?”

“Why that he is a writer, and scribbles pamphlets on religion.”

“Yes, it is true.  I have often seen him at my employer’s, with whom he deals; a bad paymaster, but a jolly fellow!”

“And pretends to be devout, eh?”

“I believe you, my boy—­when it is necessary; then he is my Lord Dumoulin, as large as life.  He rolls his eyes, walks with his head on one side, and his toes turned in; but, when the piece is played out, he slips away to the balls of which he is so fond.  The girls christened him Ninny Moulin.  Add, that he drinks like a fish, and you have the photo of the cove.  All this doesn’t prevent his writing for the religious newspapers; and the saints, whom he lets in even oftener than himself, are ready to swear by him.  You should see his articles and his tracts—­only see, not read!—­every page is full of the devil and his horns, and the desperate fryings which await your impious revolutionists—­and then the authority of the bishops, the power of the Pope—­hang it! how could I know it all?  This toper, Ninny Moulin, gives good measure enough for their money!”

“The fact is, that he is both a heavy drinker and a heavy swell.  How he rattled on with little Rose-Pompon in the dance and the full-blown tulip!”

“And what a rum chap he looked in his Roman helmet and top-boots.”

“Rose-Pompon dances divinely, too; she has the poetic twist.”

“And don’t show her heels a bit!”