I was left standing alone in the midst of the devastation, for my great tree preserved me from all peril. What a grotesque picture was presented to my eyes! Solomon and the great Kin-Kin-Li-King were lying in a heap with the gardens of the Luxembourg and of Athens; the sun no longer shone, the moon was covered with oil, the comet shorn of its tail. Père Trousquin was struggling under his broken lantern, still holding in his hand the handle of his bowl; and the young woman had fallen in a posture that disclosed beauty which would have put to shame the most perfect moon that ever graced a magic lantern. The young soldier's head was in Père Trousquin's bowl; his face was covered by carrots and onions; he seemed to be caught in such a way that he could not extricate himself from the trap. As for Mère Trousquin, she had fallen gracefully; her cords had held her up, and the curtain of the lantern concealed what might have caused her modesty to blush. However, as those who are least hurt always make the most noise, Madame Trousquin's shrieks were simply deafening; her husband uttered the most frightful oaths, and the young woman groaned plaintively. The soldier alone made no outcry; I believe that he found the soup and vegetables to his liking. All the idlers in the neighborhood were attracted to the broken lantern by the uproar, the shrieks and oaths; and I was surrounded in an instant by a crowd of people who came from I don't know where; for a moment before I could not see a soul on the Champs-Élysées. My retreat was cut off; I could not make my way out of the crowd; but I was not sorry to see how it would end. After shouting and swearing to their heart's content, the unfortunates tried to extricate themselves from the tangle they were in: the soldier succeeded in uncovering his face, the girl rose and arranged her skirts. Mère Trousquin disentangled herself from her cords, the magic lantern was lifted from the ground, and Père Trousquin struggled to his feet. The soldier tried to slink away with his companion; but he could not elude the owner of the lantern, who insisted that he should pay for the damages. "My glasses are smashed," said Père Trousquin; "you've spoiled my sun and moon, you've broken my Judgment of Solomon and my Chinese palace, and ruined my views of Greece; you've got to pay me for all that." "Go to the devil!" said the soldier, repairing the disorder of his costume as best he could. "I won't pay you for anything at all. What do I care for your Chinese and your Solomon! your sun and moon look just like the night lights you buy for a sou; and as for your fat, just put it in your lamps." "You broke my lantern, and you've got to pay me for it." "You're an old drunkard; if your lantern wasn't firm on its legs, it's no fault of mine." "You tumbled against it during the Battle of Marengo." "You threw it over, yourself, trying to imitate cannon." "You made me break my bowl." "You're responsible for my tearing my breeches."