“Archieolopically?” said Rose-Pompon.  “What sawnee is that?  Has he a tail? does he live in the water?”

“Never mind,” observed the Bacchanal Queen; “these are words of wise men and conjurers; they are like horsehair bustles—­they serve for filling out—­that’s all.  I like better to drink; so fill the glasses, Ninny Moulin; some champagne, Rose-Pompon; here’s to the health of your Philemon and his speedy return!”

“And to the success of his plant upon his stupid and stingy family!” added Rose-Pompon.

The toast was received with unanimous applause.

“With the permission of her majesty and her court,” said Dumoulin, “I propose a toast to the success of a project which greatly interests me, and has some resemblance to Philemon’s jockeying.  I fancy that the toast will bring me luck.”

“Let’s have it, by all means!”

“Well, then—­success to my marriage!” said Dumoulin, rising.

These words provoked an explosion of shouts, applause, and laughter.  Ninny Moulin shouted, applauded, laughed even louder than the rest, opening wide his enormous mouth, and adding to the stunning noise the harsh springing of his rattle, which he had taken up from under his chair.

When the storm had somewhat subsided, the Bacchanal Queen rose and said:  “I drink to the health of the future Madame Ninny Moulin.”

“Oh, Queen! your courtesy touches me so sensibly that I must allow you to read in the depths of my heart the name of my future spouse,” exclaimed Dumoulin.  “She is called Madame Honoree-Modeste-Messaline-Angele de la Sainte-Colombe, widow.”

“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.