"'Have you lost something?' said I. "'You don't understand. I am trying to think of some way to compel my wife to let me kiss her, and it is very difficult, because she is cross with me now. But this is what I have thought of: I am going to suggest a game of blind-man's-buff, and I will ask to be _it_, on condition that I may kiss the person I catch, when I guess who it is. When I catch my wife, be good enough to cough, so as to let me know; in that way I shall not make a mistake, and she'll have to let me kiss her.' "I warmly applauded Monsieur Three-Stars's plan; his idea of blind-man's-buff seemed to me very amusing. He made his proposition, it was accepted, and he was blindfolded. Now, while he groped his way about, the rest of the party thought it would be a good joke to leave him there and go to another part of the garden. I escorted Madame Three-Stars. The garden was very extensive, with grottoes and labyrinths and some extremely dark clumps of shrubbery. I will not tell you just where I took the lady, but our walk was quite long; and when we returned to our starting point, the poor husband was still groping about with the handkerchief over his eyes. When he heard us coming, he hurried toward us; I coughed,--to give him that satisfaction was the least I could do,--he named his wife and kissed her. Then, delighted with his idea, he replaced the handkerchief over his eyes, requesting to be _it_ again. We acceded to his wish, and he was _it_ three times in succession. That, messieurs, is what I call a _bonne fortune_." "Your story is exactly after the style of Boccaccio!" laughed Montricourt.--"If this goes on, messieurs, we shall be able to publish a sequel to the _Decameron_." "It's Fouvenard's turn." The hairy gentleman passed his hand across his forehead, saying: "I am searching my memory, messieurs. I have had so many adventures! I am afraid of mixing them up. You see, it's like calling on a man for a ballad who has written a great many; he doesn't know any, because he knows too many. I beg you to be good enough to leave me till the last; meanwhile, I will disentangle my memories and try to select something choice, with a Regency flavor." "All right! Fouvenard passes the bank on to Monsieur Reffort.--Go on, Reffort." Reffort was a personage who had not said four words during the dinner, but had contented himself with laughing idiotically at what the others said. He was the possessor of a more than insignificant face, and turned as red as fire when he was addressed. He rolled his eyes over the dessert, played with his knife, and murmured at last: "Faith! messieurs, it embarrasses me to speak, because--I must admit that--on my word of honor, it has never happened to me." "What's that, Reffort? It has never happened to you! What in the devil do you mean by that? Explain yourself."