"That's very lucky," replied the concierge, closing his door. "Past one o'clock. Your uncle will have notice to quit, I promise you. He makes a great show, gives evening parties, and keeps people up all night, and all for nothing! When a man wants to cut such capers, he should have a house to himself." XIV THE BOUQUET In the carriage we talked of Monsieur Vauvert's soirée musicale. Madame de Marsan laughed about it a good deal; Monsieur de Marsan shrugged his shoulders, and said that the mania for making a show was pervading all classes of society; that it seemed to be no longer possible for people to enjoy themselves _en famille_; that everybody was struggling to leave the sphere in which destiny had placed him; that men were becoming more eager for dissipation every day; that, to satisfy this imperious craving, the mechanic sacrificed his week's wages, the workingman his savings, the tradesman his stock in trade, the clerk three-fourths of his salary; hence embarrassment, borrowing, debts, failures. His conclusion was that a man should reckon up his income before giving dinners, receptions, and balls. "I should not suppose that Monsieur Vauvert's receptions were likely to ruin him," said Madame de Marsan. "It seems so to you, madame, because you have noticed simply the general effect of the affair, which, I agree, was not very splendid at first glance; but for an under clerk those lamps, the candles on the music stands, the hired piano, the music and the instruments that they sent out for, and, lastly, the modest refreshments--all those things, madame, are as extravagant for a government clerk at eighteen hundred francs, as a magnificent function, where everything is provided in profusion, is for a wealthy banker. The difference between the banker and the clerk is that people go about praising the former's party, which they are proud of having attended, while they make fun of the clerk's soirée, to which they go for the sole purpose of sneering at those who put themselves out to make people laugh at their expense." Monsieur de Marsan was right; there was a husband who spoke with profound wisdom. I approved what he said: first, because I agreed with him; secondly, because I had my reasons for always being of his opinion. Monsieur de Marsan lived near the beginning of Faubourg Saint-Honoré; I could not repress my desire to laugh when I learned his address, because it reminded me of that infernal cabman who had taken me to the farther end of Faubourg Montmartre on the night when I attempted to follow the carriage; but I instantly attributed my merriment to a memory of the concert, and, as we all retained some very comical ones, that seemed perfectly natural. They set me down on Rue Saint-Florentin, after inviting me to their house to listen, not to a concert, but to a little music; there is a great difference between the two, for I had to admit that I had heard no music at Monsieur Vauvert's concert of amateurs.