This mob—­nearly all its members half seas over, soon swollen by the many people who have to be up early to follow their crafts—­suddenly concentrated in one of the corners of the square, so that a pale, deformed girl, who was going that way, was caught in the human tide.  This was Mother Bunch.  Up with the lark, she was hurrying to receive some work from her employer.  Remembering how a mob had treated her when she had been arrested in the streets only the day before, by mistake, the poor work-girl’s fears may be imagined when she was now surrounded by the revellers against her will.  But, spite of all her efforts—­very feeble, alas!—­she could not stir a step, for the band of merry-makers, newly arriving, had rushed in among the others, shoving some of them aside, pushing far into the mass, and sweeping Mother Bunch—­who was in their way—­clear over to the crowd around the public-house.

The new-comers were much finer rigged out than the others, for they belonged to the gay, turbulent class which goes frequently to the Chaumiere, the Prado, the Colisee, and other more or less rowdyish haunts of waltzers, made up generally of students, shop-girls, and counter skippers, clerks, unfortunates, etc., etc.

This set, while retorting to the chaff of the other party, seemed to be very impatiently expecting some singularly desired person to put in her appearance.

The following snatches of conversation, passing between clowns and columbines, pantaloons and fairies, Turks and sultans, debardeurs and debardeuses, paired off more or less properly, will give an idea of the importance of the wished-for personage.

“They ordered the spread to be for seven in the morning, so their carriages ought to have come up afore now.”

“Werry like, but the Bacchanal Queen has got to lead off the last dance in the Prado.”

“I wish to thunder I’d ’a known that, and I’d ’a stayed there to see her—­my beloved Queen!”

“Gobinet; if you call her your beloved Queen again, I’ll scratch you!  Here’s a pinch for you, anyhow!”

“Ow, wow, Celeste! hands off!  You are black-spotting the be-yutiful white satin jacket my mamma gave me when I first came out as Don Pasqually!”

“Why did you call the Bacchanal Queen your beloved, then?  What am I, I’d like to know?”

“You are my beloved, but not my Queen, for there is only one moon in the nights of nature, and only one Bacchanal Queen in the nights at the Prado.”

“That’s a bit from a valentine!  You can’t come over me with such rubbish.”

“Gobinet’s right! the Queen was an out-and-outer tonight!”

“In prime feather!”

“I never saw her more on the go!”

“And, my eyes! wasn’t her dress stunning?”

“Took your breath away!”

“Crushing!”

“Heavy!”

“Im-mense!”

“The last kick!”

“No one but she can get up such dresses.”