Next, Balivan, portrait painter; a typical artist's face, with unusual features, which could in all sincerity be called ugly, and a bearing in harmony with his features. He held himself sidewise, with his head sunk on one shoulder; he had a jerky walk, one leg always lagging behind; and he waved his arms about in space, so that at a distance they resembled the wings of a windmill. But, with all that, his face had much character and expression; his forehead was that of a man who thinks, and in his eyes there shone the fire of intelligence, which, in a man, excuses ugliness and often triumphs over beauty. Balivan had genuine artistic talent, which is never a disadvantage; but he was extremely lazy, a not infrequent trait among artists; in addition, he was very heedless, always making blunders, and extraordinarily absent-minded. The third of the party was he whom Célestin called Dupétrain. He was a man between thirty and forty, with a square, bony face, and yellow skin, extremely ugly at first sight, and even more so when examined closely. His broad nose lay flat on his cheeks, like a negro's; his enormous mouth became a veritable cavern when he spoke, because, in order to give greater weight to his words, he articulated every syllable with a painstaking care that was very disagreeable to his hearers. His head was adorned with a forest of hair, which he always wore very long, and which gave him some resemblance to a lion; his small, sunken, glassy eyes seemed to be engaged in a constant effort to fascinate or at least to magnetize you. Such was the individual who answered to the name of Dupétrain. "Ah! here's Pigeonnier!" exclaimed Mouillot, bringing his hand down on the corpulent youth's shoulder. "Does he dine with us?" "Yes, messieurs; I am to have that pleasure." "Famous! the man we can never get--who's always engaged." "I have given up everything to-day to join you." "But he doesn't tell you all. There's another affair--but, no! we will speak of that at dinner--without mentioning the lady's name, of course; for we must be discreet--eh, Tobie?" "Where do we dine?" "At the Maison-Dorée." VI A STAG DINNER PARTY The young men established themselves in one of the pleasant salons of the restaurant. Mouillot called for pen and ink to prepare the menu, and Tobie whispered to Albert: "We mustn't forget my letter for Madame Plays." "True," replied Albert.--"Waiter, some note paper." "Do you propose to order the dinner, too?" said Mouillot. "Can't you trust me to do it in style?" "To be sure; I am going to write something else." "A billet-doux, eh? Oh! for heaven's sake, let the women alone! We are here to eat and laugh." "This is how it is, messieurs. There's----" "Oh! my dear fellow," cried Tobie, hurrying to Albert's side, "let's not compromise anybody! we agreed to be close-mouthed!" "So long as he doesn't mention the lady's name," said Célestin, "I don't see why he can't tell the story."