“It is astonishing how jealous the mammas are,” said the Baroness, gayly. “They will make me pay dearly for having been the matchmaker; but I am proud of it, very proud. Zilah has good taste, that is all. And, as for him, I should have been in love with him myself, if I had not had my guests to attend to. Ah, society is as absorbing as a husband!” Upon the boat, Paul Jacquemin did not leave the side of the matchmaker. He followed her everywhere. He had still to obtain a description of the bride’s toilettes, the genealogy of General Vogotzine, a sketch of the bridegroom’s best friend, Varhely, and a thousand other details. “Where will the wedding take place?” he asked the Baroness. “At Maisons-Lafitte. Oh! everything is perfect, my dear Jacquemin, perfect! An idyl! All the arrangements are exquisite, exquisite! I only wish that you had charge of the supper.” Jacquemin, general overseer of the Baroness’s parties in the Rue Murillo, did not confess himself inferior to any one as an epicure. He would taste the wines, with the air of a connoisseur, holding his glass up to the light, while the liquor caressed his palate, and shutting his eyes as if more thoroughly to decide upon its merits. “Pomard!” would slowly fall from his lips, or “Acceptable Musigny!” “This Chambertin is really very fair!” “The Chateau Yquem is not half bad!” etc., etc. And the next morning would appear in the reports, which he wrote himself under various pseudonyms: “Our compliments to our friend Jacquemin, if he had anything to do with the selection of the wines, in addition to directing the rehearsals of the Baroness’s operetta, which latter work he most skilfully accomplished. Jacquemin possesses talents of all kinds; he knows how to make the best of all materials. As the proverb says, ‘A good mill makes everything flour.’” Jacquemin had already cast an eye over the menu of the Prince’s fete, and declared it excellent, very correct, very pure. .................... The steamer was at last ready to depart, and Prince Zilah had done the honors to all his guests. It started slowly off, the flags waving coquettishly in the breeze, while the Tzigani musicians played with spirit the vibrating notes of the March of Rakoczy, that triumphant air celebrating the betrothal of Zilah, as it had long ago saluted the burial of his father. CHAPTER X. “IS FATE SO JUST?” “We are moving! We are off!” cried the lively little Baroness. “I hope we shan’t be shipwrecked,” retorted Jacquemin; and he then proceeded to draw a comical picture of possible adventures wherein figured white bears, icebergs, and death by starvation. “A subject for a novel,--‘The Shipwreck of the Betrothed.’”