We are back in the ball-room again,--it is hard to keep out. The gayety is at its height, the Bal Bullier is in full swing. The tables are piled high with saucers, and the garçons are bringing more. The room is warm and suffocating, the dancing and flirting faster than ever. Now and then a line is formed to "crack the whip," and woe betide anything that comes in its way! [Illustration: 0131] Our genial, generous new friend from Cincinnati was living the most glorious hour of his life. He had not been satisfied until he found and captured the saucy little wretch who had sent his hat spinning across the room; so now she was anchored to him, and he was giving exhibitions of American grace and agility that would have amazed his friends at home. For obviously he was a person of consequence there. When he saw us his face beamed with triumph, and he proudly introduced us to his mignonette-scented conquest, Mad-dem-mo-zel Madeleine (which he pronounced Madelyne), "the queen of the Latin Quarter. But blamed if I can talk the blooming lingo!" he exclaimed, ruefully. "You translate for me, won't you?" he appealed to Bishop, and Bishop complied. In paying compliments thus transmitted to Madeleine he displayed an adeptness that likely would have astounded his good spouse, who at that moment was slumbering in a respectable part of Paris. But the big black Martinique negroes,--they haunted and dominated everything, and the demimonde fell down and worshipped them. They are students of law and medicine, and are sent hither from the French colonies by the government, or come on their private means. [Illustration: 0132] They are all heavy swells, as only negroes can be; their well-fitted clothes are of the finest and most showy material; they wear shining silk hats, white waistcoats, white "spats," patent leathers, and very light kid gloves, not to mention a load of massive jewelry. The girls flutter about them in bevies, like doves to be fed. At exactly a quarter-past midnight the band played the last piece, the lights began to go out, and the Bal Bullier was closed. Out into the boulevard surged the heated crowd, shouting, singing, and cutting capers as they headed for the Boul' Mich', there to continue the revelries of which the Bal Bullier was only the beginning. "A la Taverne du Panthéon!" "Au Café Lorrain!" "Au Café d'Harcourt!" were the cries that range through the streets, mingled with the singing of half a thousand people. [Illustration: 0133] In this mob we again encountered our American acquaintance with his prize, and as he was bent on seeing all that he could of Paris, he begged us to see him through, explaining that money was no object with him, though delicately adding that our friends must make so many calls upon our hospitality as to prove a burden at times. He had only two days more in Paris, and the hours were precious, and "we will do things up in style," he declared buoyantly. He did.