The cabildo, the former palace of the governor of the province, had, in fact, vast and well-ventilated rooms, but the furniture of which formed a striking contrast to the magnificent toilets of the guests. The whitewashed walls were entirely bare; two rows of benches were all the furniture of the saloons, which were lighted by means of wax candles and garlands of coloured lamps, hidden as far as possible in the midst of bouquets of artificial flowers. On a stage placed in the centre of the principal saloon was an orchestra composed of some fifteen musicians, who, playing almost ad libitum, made the most odious uproar with their instruments that could be imagined. But joy and enthusiasm lit up every face. The guests appeared very little to care whether the music was good or bad, provided it enabled them to dance, of which they acquitted themselves in a thoroughly joyous manner, bounding and gambolling in emulation of each other with every manifestation of pleasure. In the midst of the crowd the general commanding and the governor were promenading, followed by a number of their staff, glittering with ornaments, and returning with a patronising air the salutes which were addressed to them. Near them was M. Dubois, upright and formal, in his black coat in the French style, and his short breeches, forming the most singular contrast to those who surrounded him. The painter could scarcely repress a burst of laughter on perceiving him, and tried to hide himself in the middle of the crowd; but it was labour lost: M. Dubois perceived him, and came right to him. The painter was obliged to wait for him. "My young friend," said M. Dubois, passing his arm under his arm, and drawing him towards the seat of a window, which was unoccupied at the moment, "I am happy to have the opportunity of meeting you; I have something important to say to you." "Important!" said the artist, with a gesture of annoyance, "The devil take it." "Yes," replied he, smiling; "you shall see." "I am scarcely serious enough in my nature," pursued he; "I am an artist, you know--a painter, a passionate lover of art; and it is just to escape the exigencies of serious life that I have abandoned France to come to America." "Then you have decidedly fallen," said M. Dubois with a dash of irony. "I begin to believe that I am wrong." "It is possible, but let us return to business." "What, it is a question of business, then?" "Pardieu! Is not everything business in this world?" "Hum!" said the artist, not at all convinced. M. Dubois assumed a paternal air, and, seizing a button of his companion's coat, without doubt, to prevent him from escaping-- "Listen to me with attention," said he; "the few days that I have had the advantage of passing in your company enabled me to study your character, and to appreciate it at its just value; you are an intelligent, wise, and modest young man; you please me." "You are very good," mechanically murmured Émile by way of answer.