At our house they had given up taking advantage of Galurin’s services after a great dinner at which he was put in charge of the wines, with instructions to name them as he served them. He triumphantly opened the dining-room door, waving the bottle in the air and crying in stentorian tones, “I announce the _Moulin-à-vent_”--an effort which was received with a burst of laughter that wounded him, for he was very sensitive. He abandoned the napkin and became process-server, which coercive though somewhat obscure title seemed to be one of honour. To add to his income he vouchsafed to carry around wedding or funeral invitations when such occasions occurred. One evening, before an important funeral, he forgot himself at the Café of the Navigators, and left the entire parcel of mourning invitations upon the sofa. When he found them it was too late to make his rounds. At once adopting the radical measures which circumstances demanded, he hastened to plunge the compromising parcel in the lake. As the result of this immersion the defunct was obliged to take possession of his last abode in almost complete solitude. Never had such forlorn obsequies been witnessed, and many coolnesses arose among relatives and friends who had not received invitations, and who were not slow to assume that they had been purposely and maliciously neglected. Galurin used to heap anathemas upon the social system which constrained him to adopt such base industries, the duties of which he performed but capriciously and intermittently. Furthermore, he advocated the partition of all property, for he had nothing of his own.