“With what does not concern me!” repeated Monsieur Goupille, drawing himself up to so great a stretch that he seemed pulling off his tights the wrong way. “Explain yourself, if you please! This lady is my wife!” “Say that again,--that’s all!” cried the whiskered stranger, in most horrible French, and with a furious grimace, as he shook both his fists just under the nose of the epicier. “Say it again, sir,” said Monsieur Goupille, by no means daunted; “and why should not I say it again? That lady is my wife!” “You lie!--she is mine!” cried the German; and bending down, he caught the fair Adele from the Pole with as little ceremony as if she had never had a great-grandfather a marquis, and giving her a shake that might have roused the dead, thundered out,-- “Speak! Madame Bihl! Are you my wife or not?” “Monstre!” murmured Adele, opening her eyes. “There--you hear--she owns me!” said the German, appealing to the company with a triumphant air. “C’est vrai!” said the soft voice of the policeman. “And now, pray don’t let us disturb your amusements any longer. We have a fiacre at the door. Remove your lady, Monsieur Bihl.” “Monsieur Lofe!--Monsieur Lofe!” cried, or rather screeched the epicier, darting across the room, and seizing the chef by the tail of his coat, just as he was half way through the door, “come back! Quelle mauvaise plaisanterie me faites-vous ici? Did you not tell me that lady was single? Am I married or not: Do I stand on my head or my heels?” “Hush-hush! mon bon bourgeois!” whispered Mr. Love; “all shall be explained to-morrow!” “Who is this gentleman?” asked Monsieur Favart, approaching Mr. Love, who, seeing himself in for it, suddenly jerked off the epicier, thrust his hands down into his breeches’ pockets, buried his chin in his cravat, elevated his eyebrows, screwed in his eyes, and puffed out his cheeks, so that the astonished Monsieur Goupille really thought himself bewitched, and literally did not recognise the face of the match-maker. “Who is this gentleman?” repeated the little officer, standing beside, or rather below, Mr. Love, and looking so diminutive by the contrast that you might have fancied that the Priest of Hymen had only to breathe to blow him away. “Who should he be, monsieur?” cried, with great pertness, Madame Rosalie Caumartin, coming to the relief, with the generosity of her sex.--“This is Monsieur Lofe--Anglais celebre. What have you to say against him?” “He has got five hundred francs of mine!” cried the epicier. The policeman scanned Mr. Love, with great attention. “So you are in Paris again?--Hein!--vous jouez toujours votre role! “Ma foi!” said Mr. Love, boldly; “I don’t understand what monsieur means; my character is well known--go and inquire it in London--ask the Secretary of Foreign Affairs what is said of me--inquire of my Ambassador--demand of my--” “Votre passeport, monsieur?” “It is at home. A gentleman does not carry his passport in his pocket when he goes to a ball!”