The cab had drawn up in front of the Lion d'Or restaurant in the Rue du Helder, and the two friends alighted, and asked for the room reserved for M. Dargental's party. The head-waiter replied that the gentleman referred to had not yet arrived, though he had ordered lunch to be served at twelve o'clock precisely; and he then led the friends to an apartment where they found two people waiting. One of them was a pale young man, about twenty-eight years of age, as phlegmatic as a Scandinavian, and as dissipated as a Russian. Although always ready to drink, to play cards, and to spend his nights in bad company, he never laughed and rarely smiled. A good-hearted fellow, however, and popular in the set he mingled with. His name was Charles Balmer, and he was afflicted with the belief that he was dying from consumption. Beside him in the private room sat Blanche Pornic, the actress, Dargental's old flame. Tall, and lithe of form to a degree that had won her the surname of the Reed, she was very charming, with her pale golden hair, her brown eyes, sparkling with mischief, her regular features, her graceful movements, and her silvery voice--a voice that went straight to one's heart. When Puymirol and Caumont arrived she and Balmer were complaining of Dargental's non-arrival, and after some comments had been exchanged concerning his delay, Blanche exclaimed: "We have given him quite enough grace. Come, Balmer, ring, and tell them to serve us." "Nothing would please me better," exclaimed Balmer. "I am as hungry as a dog." "That is a good sign for a sick man," remarked Puymirol. "By no means. What, can it be that you, a medical man, are ignorant of the fact that consumptives eat like ogres?" "That is all bosh; besides, you are no more a consumptive than I am." "I haven't more than two years to live, as I know perfectly well. If you wish to satisfy yourself on the point, you only have to examine my lungs." "No, no," cried Blanche. "This is no hospital, and you disgust me with your medical talk. To table, gentlemen! I will sit opposite Dargental. He isn't here, but I will imagine that he is. Caumont may take a seat on my right, and Puymirol on my left. And now let us partake of the funereal repast." "Funereal is the very word," said Adhémar. "The invitations we received had mourning borders." "And the bill of fare also," chimed in George. "Pierre made a great mistake," remarked Blanche; "such jokes always bring bad luck." "The fact that he hasn't come is sufficient proof of that. I wonder if he has broken a leg." "No, indeed! Dargental is too lucky to meet with any such accident. His noble betrothed must have got wind of this breakfast, and have forbidden him to attend it." "In that case, he would, at least, have warned you." "Do you regret his absence?" asked Blanche, with a glance at Puymirol. "How can I when I am near you?"