The songs and choruses succeeded each other rapidly. That contributed by Madame Vincelot wrought up the merriment of the party to a high pitch. "This festal board, this royal cheer, They clearly tell (They clearly tell) Our host is glad to have us here, And feast us well (And feast us well); For even he permits that we Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari! "Now pour me out a glass, kind host, Of this good wine (_repeat_), For I would drink a loving toast-- This wife of thine (_repeat_), Who smilingly permits that we Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!" To this Madame D'Haberville added the following impromptu stanza: "If our endeavor to make your cheer Be not in vain (_repeat_), Consider you're the masters here, And come again (_repeat_), And it shall be your care that we Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!" Then Jules added a verse: "Without a spice of rivalry Dan Cupid nods (_repeat_), But challenge him to cups, and he 'Ll accept the odds (_repeat_). Bacchus and he, as well as we, Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!" At the end of each stanza every one pounded on the table with their hands or rapped on the plates with their forks and spoons, till the din became something indescribable. Blanche, being asked to sing her favorite song of Blaise and Babette, endeavored to excuse herself and substitute another; but the young ladies insisted, crying: "Let us have Blaise and Babette by all means; the minor is so touching." "Yes," said Jules, "that is a minor, with its 'My love it is my life'; a minor to touch the tenderest chord in the feminine heart. Quick, let us have the sweet minor, to touch the hearts of these charming young ladies!" "We'll make you pay for that in blindman's buff," said one of them. "And in the game of forfeits," said another. "Look out for yourself, my boy," said Jules, addressing himself, "for in the hands of these young ladies you stand no better chance than a cat without claws would in--hades! No matter. Sing away, my dear sister. Your voice, perhaps, like that of Orpheus, will assuage the fury of your enemies." "The wretch!" chorused the young ladies, "to compare us--But, never mind, we'll settle with you later. Meanwhile, sing us the song, Blanche, dear." The latter still hesitated. Then, fearing to attract attention by her refusal, she sang the following song with tears in her voice. It was the cry of a pure love finding utterance, in spite of all her efforts to bury it in her heart: "For thee, dear heart, these flowers I twine. My Blaise, accept of thy Babette The warm rose and the orange-flower, And jessamine and violet. Be not thy passion like the bloom, That shines a day and disappears. My love is an undying light, And will not change for time or tears.