Thus we find in the world a great many people who would be most estimable and would not arouse criticism, if they did not try to do more than they are able to do. An under clerk, with a salary of a hundred louis, must needs give evening parties, balls; the house is turned topsy-turvy; beds are taken down to make more room, a piano is hired, and lamps of all kinds; decanters of syrups are prepared, and punch, and there is a supper. But, despite all the trouble he has taken, the company, much too numerous for the tiny apartments, cannot find room. There are not enough chairs; the paper behind the beds is of a different color and betrays the moving in the morning; the piano is out of tune; the refreshments, bought all made, are not sweet enough, because the sugar has been used sparingly in order to make another decanter of syrup; the lamps refuse to burn, because the host is not familiar with them; the punch is compounded of poor brandy, because they bought the cheapest brand; and at supper you will find nothing but stale bread to eat with the fowl that is handed you. People love to criticise; you laugh quietly at everything that is bad, entirely oblivious to what is all right. Now, is it not much better to give, instead of this, an unpretentious party, to have fewer guests, and to leave the bed in place; to have one less cold joint, and to serve fresh bread; in short, to put aside the ambition to have a grand reception, and aim at nothing more than getting a few friends together? At Monsieur Destival's the beds were not taken down because they had a salon large enough to hold a numerous company; the lamps burned well, because they were frequently used; and the punch was good, because Madame Destival knew nothing of that false economy by virtue of which nothing is ever done well. But Domingo, stationed in the reception room to announce the guests, and Baptiste, who ran constantly from one room to another to execute his masters's orders, and who commented aloud on everything that he was told to do, produced an irresistibly comical effect, largely because Destival was incessantly calling one or the other of them by the epithets of "knave" and "rascal." When Dalville arrived he found several persons in the salon; he recognized Monsieur Monin and his better half, the latter of whom did not wear a shepherdess's hat on this occasion, but a huge turban beneath which her fat face strikingly resembled a Turk's. Auguste had hardly entered the salon when Monin inquired concerning the state of his health. Madame Destival accorded him a most gracious welcome, and her reproaches for the infrequency of his visits were uttered in such an amiable tone that they could not fail to make him regret that he had earned them. Before Auguste had looked at the other guests, Monsieur Destival entered the salon, and at sight of Dalville uttered a joyful cry as if he had thought him dead; then he ran to him and grasped his hands, saying: