"It's my opinion, God forgive me! the man means to feed us with scraps from the pig-trough," says another. "It's a regular do, this soirée," says a third. "The tea is disgustingly smoked," says a fourth. "And all the little cakes look as if they had been fingered before," says the fifth. "Decidedly they wish to poison us," says the big man in the neckcloth, looking very morose. M. Lupot is in despair. He goes in search of Nannette, who has hidden herself in the kitchen; and he busies himself in gathering up the fragments of the bread and butter from the floor and the fireplace. Madame Lupot says nothing; but she is in very bad humour, for she has put on a new cap, which she felt sure would be greatly admired; and a lady has come to her and said-- "Ah, madame, what a shocking head-dress!--your cap is very old-fashioned--those shapes are quite gone out." "And yet, madame," replies Madame Lupot, "I bought it, not two days ago, in the Rue St Martin." "Well, madame--Is that the street you go to for the fashions? Go to Mademoiselle Alexina Larose Carrefous Gaillon--you'll get delicious caps there--new fashions and every thing so tasteful: for Heaven's sake, madame, never put on that cap again. You look, at least, a hundred." "It's worth one's while, truly," thought Madame Lupot, "to tire one's self to death receiving people, to be treated to such pretty compliments." Her husband, in the meanwhile, continued his labours in pursuit of the rejected sandwiches. The big man in spectacles, who wondered that people could live in the Rue Grenetat, had no idea, nevertheless, of coming there for nothing. He has seated himself in an arm-chair in the middle of the room, and informs the company that he is going to repeat a few lines of his own to them.--The society seems by no means enchanted with the announcement, but forms itself in a circle, to listen to the poet. He coughs and spits, wipes his mouth, tales a pinch of snuff, sneezes, has the lamps raised, the doors shut, asks a tumbler of sugar and water, and passes his hand through his hair. After continuing these operations for some minutes, the literary man at last begins. He spouts his verses in a voice enough to break the glasses; before he has spoken a minute, he has presented a tremendous picture of crimes, and deaths, and scaffolds, sufficient to appal the stoutest hearts, when suddenly a great crash from the inner room attracts universal attention. It is the young Ascanius, who was trying to get a muffin on the top of a pile of dishes, and has upset the table, with muffin, and dishes, and all on his own head. M. Lupot runs off to ascertain the cause of the dreadful cries of his son; the company follow him, not a little rejoiced to find an excuse for hearing no more of the poem; and the poet, deprived in this way of an audience, gets up in a furious passion, takes his hat, and rushes from the room, exclaiming--"It serves me right. How could I have been