While Monsieur Rocambolle angrily reclaimed his cotton posterior, while the toothless youth threw himself upon a couch, laughing like a maniac, while Zamorin looked to see if the supper were growing cold, and while milord gazed from one to another of the company with eyes that seemed to be starting from his head, Raymond, wishing to repair the damage unassisted, rushed to the table in search of something to give the fainting woman. As he put out his hand for a carafe, he overturned a decanter of madeira, also a candelabrum, the candles in which fell upon a fromage glacé and went out. The decanter fell on Monsieur de Grandmaison's face, who swore that his nose was broken; while Zamorin, seeing the havoc Raymond was making on the supper table, called loudly for help. The servants hastened to the spot, but their presence served only to increase the confusion. Caroline was still unconscious, or pretended to be in order to conceal her embarrassment; Monsieur de Grandmaison continued to curse, Monsieur Rocambolle to shout, Zamorin to lament, and the young man to laugh; the Englishman tried to put a bottle or two of champagne in a safe place; and Raymond, in attempting to assist the young woman, to raise Grandmaison, and to restore order, overturned furniture, smashed bottles and plates, sent a chicken in one man's face, a pie into another's lap, and ended by falling upon a small table laden with liqueurs and brandied fruits. What further business had I at Monsieur de Grandmaison's? My revenge was complete; the confusion was at its height; the scene of pleasure was transformed into a scene of uproar and distress; singing had given place to outcries, bonsmots to lamentations, drunkenness to wrath, merriment to gloom; in a word, Caroline had seen and recognized me, and the effect had surpassed my anticipations. I was satisfied; and leaving them all to extricate themselves from their plight as best they could, I left Monsieur de Grandmaison's house, thoroughly cured of the sentiment the young flowermaker had inspired in me. XXIII THE TWO VISITS.--THE LESSON IN HANDWRITING On the following morning, at nine o'clock, my doorbell rang. I was still in bed, reviewing the events of the evening, and laughing at that which had been powerless hitherto to extort a smile from me, because a single sentiment had filled my mind and prevented me from considering the scene from its comic side. But now that my head was cool, my heart tranquil, and my mind no longer tormented by the anticipation of what was to happen, I thought of the different personages I had left at Monsieur de Grandmaison's house; I fancied that I could see them gathered about the lost supper, lost by the exertions of Monsieur Raymond; and I laughed all by myself, as if I were still in their midst.