The loving Aménaïde was not thoroughly comforted; she would have preferred that there should be no fireworks to celebrate the baptism; but everybody seemed pleased, and she dared not deprive the company of the pleasure which they took in the spectacle. Soon applause rose on all sides; Jasmin had just lighted the transparency with the moon, calling out as he did so: “A portrait of our child, young Chérubin de Grandvilain.” At that everybody applauded on trust, although they squinted in vain to discover a face painted in the moon on the transparency; but they ascribed that to the smoke, and several persons went so far as to cry out: “It is very like, on my word! anyone could recognize it! A very pretty idea! such things as this are not seen anywhere except at the Marquis de Grandvilain’s.” While the company was admiring the transparency, Mademoiselle Turlurette, still intent upon her idea of setting off something, went to Jasmin and said: “Give me your slow-match, it’s my turn; what am I going to set off?” “Here, Mademoiselle Turlurette, set fire to this sun. But aren’t you afraid?” “Me, afraid! oh, no! just show me where to light it.” “See, here is the match.” Stout Turlurette took the slow-match which Jasmin handed to her, and held it to the wick which protruded from the sun. Despite all the courage which she was determined to display, the stout girl was terribly excited, for she had never set off a piece of fireworks before. After she had touched the match which she had in her hand to the place pointed out to her, when she heard the powder hiss and the flame sputter close beside her, a sudden terror took possession of Turlurette; fancying that she was being burned by the sparks from the sun, she ran across the courtyard, holding her dress up with one hand, as if she were trying to make a belt of it, and with her lighted slow-match still in the other. The latter she threw down, without looking, in the first convenient spot. The sun produced a great effect; it whirled about like a top, and everybody at the windows applauded. Some said: “It is as pretty as at Tivoli.” Another exclaimed: “It is almost as fine as the fireworks we have at our house, in my park, on my birthday.” And the old marquis leaned far out of the window, crying: “Bravo! I am much pleased, my children! You may regale yourselves again after the fireworks.” But Monsieur de Grandvilain had hardly ceased speaking when there was a terrible report, and the old mansion was shaken to its foundation; it was caused by all the mortars, large and small, exploding at the same moment, because stout Turlurette, in her alarm, had thrown her slow-match into the midst of the heavy pieces which were reserved for the finale.