"Sacrebleu! what is this?" cried Cherami, roughly pushing back the waiter, who stood by the door in open-mouthed amazement at the caress he had received.--"Why the devil do you come up under my nose, waiter? Plague take the knave! I said to myself: 'Gad! this young lady uses very cheap soap!'" "Pardon, monsieur; it isn't my fault; I was coming in, and you ran into my arms. I know well enough that it wasn't me you meant to embrace." "It's lucky that you understand that." "Waiter, what are the ladies doing now?" "They are all going away, monsieur." "And the men?" "Some of them have gone, too; but many stayed, and are playing cards." "And the Blanquette party, waiter--what are they doing now?" "The Blanquette party are still at table, monsieur, and singing." "Ah! I recognize them by that. They'll sit at table till ten o'clock, those people; the petty bourgeois sing at dessert, which is very bad form. However, I confess that I have sometimes gone so far as to hum a ditty myself; I have even composed one on occasion, one which Panard or Colle wouldn't have been ashamed to father. But I like a touch of smut myself; don't talk to me of your insipid ballads about roses and zephyrs and the springtime; no, nor your political ballads either; I abominate them; and yet, that's the kind of thing that makes great reputations; and I know men who would have been nothing more than common ballad-mongers, if they hadn't flattered parties and passions, and who have reached the very pinnacle of fame because they always end their couplets with the words _fatherland_ and _liberty_. O Armand Gouffe! O Desaugiers! you didn't resort to such methods, so very little is heard of you. You are none the less the real French ballad-makers; your fruitful and vigorous muse has discovered innumerable varied subjects and described them in song, which is much more difficult than to keep harping on the same refrain." "But, my dear Monsieur Arthur, now that I am waiting for the return of the bride, to whom I shall say adieu forever, if your affairs call you elsewhere, do not hesitate to go. Leave me; I have abused your good-nature too far already." "I, leave you! No, indeed! What do you take me for?--What! after accepting your suggestion that we should dine together, leave you all of a sudden at dessert? Fie! Only a cad would do that; and, thank God! I know what good-breeding is. Tell me, do I annoy you? Is my presence distasteful to you?" "Ah! far from it, my dear sir; you have shown an interest in my affairs, which I shall never forget." "We were born to be friends, and we are; that is settled, your affairs are mine, what concerns you concerns me. Wherever there is danger for you, it is my duty to look after you; and, you understand, if, while you are talking with the bride, her new husband should happen to come prowling about here, I will just step in front of him and say: 'I am very sorry, my boy, but you can't pass!'"