The Restaurant du Soleil, where the marriage feast was held, was an earwiggy hostelry on the outskirts of the town, sheltered from the prying roadway by a screen of green lattice and a series of _tonnelles_, the dusty arbours, each furnished with table and chairs, beloved of French revellers. Above the entrance gate stretched the semi-circular sign-board bearing in addition to the name, the legend "Jardin. Noces. Fêtes." Within, a few lime-trees closely planted threw deep shadow over the grassless garden; shrubs and flowers wilted in a neglected bed. Usually the forlorn demesne was supervised by a mangy waiter brooding over mangy tables and by a mangier cat who kept a furtive eye on the placarded list of each day's _plat du jour_ and wondered when her turn would come for Thursday's _Sauté de lapin_. But tables, cat and waiter cast manginess aside when _we_(the pride of that day still remains and makes me italicise the word) came down to play at the wedding of Adolphe Querlat and Léontine Bringuet. "_Tiens!_ where is Père Paragot?" asked fat Madame Bringuet--perspiring in unaccustomed corset and black bombazine. "Alas! he is no longer, Madame," explained Blanquette. "He had a seizure yesterday. He fell off his chair, and we picked him up stone dead." "_Tiens, tiens_, but it is sad." "But no. It does not matter. This gentleman will make you dance much better than Père Paragot," and she whispered encomiums into Madame's ear. "Enchanted, Monsieur. And your name?" My master swept a courtly bow with his feathered hat--no one ever bowed so magnificently as he. "Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot, _cadet_, at your service." "You must be hungry, Monsieur Paragot--and Mademoiselle and this little monsieur," said Madame Bringuet hospitably. "We are at table in the _salle à manger_. You will join us."