you know what used to be said of him: that he was the husband of all the women?"

"Yes, and we know the rest."

"I say, you, over there! Haven't you nearly finished talking about your Romans?"

"What about our host's toast?—Come, Dupréval, we're waiting; the guns are loaded, the matches lighted."

"Silence at the end of the table! Dupréval is going to speak! Great God! what chatterers those fellows are!"

"It's not we, messieurs, that you hear; it's the music. Hark, listen! they're dancing; there are wedding parties all about us—two or three at least."

"What is there surprising in that? Aren't there always wedding feasts going on at Deffieux's?"

"For my part, if I kept a restaurant, and had such a class of patrons, I would take for my sign: the Maid of Orléans."

"Oh! that would be very injudicious: many brides would refuse to have their wedding feasts at your place."

"Hush! Dupréval is getting up; he's going to speak."

"As you know, messieurs, this is my last dinner party as a bachelor, for I am to be married in a fortnight. Before settling down, before becoming transformed into a sedate and virtuous mortal, I determined to get you all together; I wanted to enjoy once more with you a few of those moments of freedom and folly which have—a little too often, perhaps—marked my bachelor days with a white stone. Now, then, messieurs, as one should never be ungrateful, as one should bestow at least a single thought on those who have made one happy, I drink to my mistresses, messieurs, to whom I bid a last farewell to-day!"

"Here's to Dupréval's mistresses!"

"And to our own, messieurs!"

"To the ladies in general, and to the one I love in particular!"

"To their shapely legs and little feet!"

"To their blue eyes and fair hair!"

"I prefer brunettes!"

"To their graceful figures!"

"To the Hottentot Venus!"

"To the destruction of corns on the feet!"

"Oh! of course, Balloquet has to make one of his foolish remarks!"

"Messieurs, pardon me for interrupting you, but, in proposing a toast to my mistresses, pray don't think that I mean to imply that I have several. I am no such rake as Rochebrune is, in that respect; one at a time is enough for me. I intended simply to address a parting thought to those I have had during the whole of my bachelor life. That point being settled, I now yield the floor to our friend, who, I believe, was about to reply to the questions that had been put to him, when I proposed my toast."

Thereupon the whole company turned their eyes toward me, for, I fancy, you understand that I am Rochebrune. Perhaps it would not be a bad idea for me to tell you at once what I was doing and in whose company I was at that moment, at Deffieux's. Indeed, there are people who would have begun with that, before introducing you to a dinner party at which the guests are still unknown to you; but I like to turn aside from the travelled roads—not from a desire to be original, but from taste.

What am I? Oh! not much of anything! For, after all, what does a man amount to who has not great renown, great talent, an illustrious reputation, or an immense fortune? A clown, a Liliputian, an atom lost in the crowd. But you will tell me that the world is made up in larger part of atoms than of giants, and that the main thing is not so much to fill a large space as to fill worthily such space as one does fill.

Unluckily, I was not wise enough for that. Having come into possession of a neat little fortune rather early in life,—about fifteen thousand francs a year,—but having neither father nor mother to guide and advise me, I was left my own master rather too soon, I fancy; for while the reason matures quickly in adversity, the contrary is ordinarily true in the bosom of opulence.

You see some mere boys, who are compelled to work in order to support their families, exhibit the intelligence and courage of a full-grown man. But place those same youths in the lap of Fortune, and they will do all the foolish things that come into their heads. Why? Because, no doubt, it is natural to love pleasure; and when we are prudent and virtuous, it is very rarely due to our own volition, but rather to circumstances, and, above all, to adversity. Which proves that adversity has its good side. But, with your permission, we will return to myself.

My name is Charles Rochebrune. I am no longer young, having passed my thirtieth birthday. How time flies! it is shocking! to be thirty years old and no further advanced than I am! Indeed, instead of advancing, I believe that I have fallen back. At twenty I had fifteen thousand francs a year, and now I have but eight. If I go on like this, in a few years more I shall have nothing at all. But have I not acquired some experience, some talent, in return for my money? No experience, I fancy, as I constantly fall into the same errors I used to be guilty of years ago. And talent?—very little, I assure you! because I attempted to acquire all the talents, and could never make up my mind to rely on a single one. I had a vocation for the arts; the result was that I tried them all, and know a little something of each one; which means that I know nothing at all of any value. Painter, sculptor, musician, poet, in turn, I have grazed the surface of them all, but gone to the root of none. Ah! lamentable fickleness of taste, of character! No sooner had I studied a certain thing a little while, than the fatal tendency to change, which is my second nature, caused me to turn my ambition toward some other object. I would say to myself: "I have made a mistake; it is not painting that electrifies me, that sets my soul on fire, but music."—And I would lay aside my brushes, to bang on a piano; and when I had made it shriek for an hour, I would imagine that I was a composer and could safely be employed to write an opera.

There is but one sentiment which has never varied, in my case, and that is my love for the ladies; and yet they say that in my relations with them I have retained my fondness for changing. But if one loves flowers, must one pluck only a single one? I love bouquets à la jardinière.

And, after all, who can say that I would not have been constant if I had found a woman who loved me dearly, and who continued to love me, no matter what happened? This last phrase means many things, which the ladies will readily understand. But I have one very great failing as to them. I will not confide it to you yet; you will discover it soon enough, as you become better acquainted with me.

I said a moment ago that my parents—that is to say, my father—left me some property. My mother had had two husbands, and I was the son of her second marriage. As she had nothing when she married my father, it is to him that I am indebted for the fortune which I have employed so ill hitherto.

But, after all, have I employed it so ill, if I have been happy? Ah! the fact is that I am not at all certain that I have been really happy in this life of dissipation, folly, incessant change, regrets, and hopes so often disappointed. I determined to settle down, to do what is called making an end of things, which means marrying; albeit marriage is not always the end of our follies, and is often the beginning of our troubles. I loved my fiancée; I was not madly in love with her, but I liked her, and I thought that she was fond of me. An unforeseen occurrence broke off my projected marriage, and since then I have entirely renounced all such ideas, because a similar occurrence might have a similar result. What was it? Ah! that is my secret; I am not as yet intimate enough with you to tell you everything.

I seem to have been talking a long while about myself; you must be sadly bored. I propose now to make you acquainted with most of the gentlemen who were my table companions at Deffieux's; I say "most of them," for there were fifteen of us, and I did not know them all.

Let us begin with the host, Dupréval, who was giving the dinner, as he