If Cartaret's glance indicated that he would like to throttle the composer, Cartaret's glance did not misinterpret. "We won't discuss that, if you please," said he. But Houdon was incapable of understanding such glances in such a connection. He tapped for the attention of his orchestra and got it. "Messieurs," he announced, "our good friend of the America of the North has been having an adventure." Everybody looked at Cartaret and everybody smiled. "Delicious," squeaked Varachon through his broken nose. "Superb," trilled the pear-shaped singer Devignes. Garnier's lantern-jaws went on eating. Seraphin Dieudonné caught Cartaret's glance imploringly and then shifted, in ineffectual warning, to Houdon. "But that was only what was to be expected, my children," the musician continued. "What can we poor Frenchmen look for when a blond Hercules of an American comes, rich and handsome, to our dear Paris? Only to-day I observed, renting an abode in the house that Monsieur and I have the honor to share, a young mademoiselle, the most gracious and beautiful, accompanied by a _tuteur_, the most ferocious; and I noted well that they went to inhabit the room but across the landing from that of M. Cartarette. Behold all! At once I said to myself: 'Alas, how long will it be before this confiding----'" He stopped short and looked at Cartaret, for Cartaret had grasped the performing hand of the composer and, in a steady grip, forced it quietly to the table. "I tell you," said Cartaret, gently, "that I don't care to have you talk in this strain." "How then?" blustered the amazed musician. "If you go on," Cartaret warned him, "you will have to go on from the floor; I'll knock you there." "Maurice!" cried Seraphin, rising from his chair. "Messieurs!" piped Devignes. Varachon growled at Houdon, and Garnier reached for a water-bottle as the handiest weapon of defense. Houdon and Cartaret were facing each other, erect, each waiting for the other to make a further move, the former red, the latter white, with anger. There followed that flashing pause of quiet which is the precursor of battle. The battle, however, was not forthcoming. Instead, through the silence, there came a roar of voices that diverted the attention of even the chief combatants. It was a roar of voices from the café below: a heavy rumble that was unmistakably Madame's and a clatter of unintelligible shrieks and demands that were feminine but unclassifiable. Now one voice shouted and next the other. Then the two joined in a mighty explosion, and little Pasbeaucoup was shot up the stairs and among the diners as if he were the first rock from the crater of an emptying volcano. He staggered against the table and jolted the water-bottle out of the poet's hand. "Name of a Name!" he gasped. "She is a veritable tigress, that woman there!"