nd stingy family!"
added Rose-Pompon.

The toast was received with unanimous applause.

"With the permission of her majesty and her court," said Dumoulin, "I
propose a toast to the success of a project which greatly interests me,
and has some resemblance to Philemon's jockeying. I fancy that the toast
will bring me luck."

"Let's have it, by all means!"

"Well, then--success to my marriage!" said Dumoulin, rising.

These words provoked an explosion of shouts, applause, and laughter.
Ninny Moulin shouted, applauded, laughed even louder than the rest,
opening wide his enormous mouth, and adding to the stunning noise the
harsh springing of his rattle, which he had taken up from under his
chair.

When the storm had somewhat subsided, the Bacchanal Queen rose and said:
"I drink to the health of the future Madame Ninny Moulin."

"Oh, Queen! your courtesy touches me so sensibly that I must
allow you to read in the depths of my heart the name of my
future spouse," exclaimed Dumoulin. "She is called Madame
Honoree-Modeste-Messaline-Angele de la Sainte-Colombe, widow."

"Bravo! bravo!"

"She is sixty years old, and has more thousands of francs-a-year than
she has hair in her gray moustache or wrinkles on her face; she is
so superbly fat that one of her gowns would serve as a tent for this
honorable company. I hope to present my future spouse to you on Shrove
Tuesday, in the costume of a shepherdess that has just devoured her
flock. Some of them wish to convert her--but I have undertaken to divert
her, which she will like better. You must help me to plunge her headlong
into all sorts of skylarking jollity."

"We will plunge her into anything you please."

"She shall dance like sixty!" said Rose-Pompon, humming a popular tune.

"She will overawe the police."

"We can say to them: 'Respect this lady; your mother will perhaps be as
old some day!'"

Suddenly, the Bacchanal Queen rose; her countenance wore a singular
expression of bitter and sardonic delight. In one hand she held a glass
full to the brim. "I hear the Cholera is approaching in his seven-league
boots," she cried. "I drink luck to the Cholera!" And she emptied the
bumper.

Notwithstanding the general gayety, these words made a gloomy
impression; a sort of electric shudder ran through the assemblage, and
nearly every countenance became suddenly serious.

"Oh, Cephyse!" said Jacques, in a tone of reproach.

"Luck to the Cholera," repeated the Queen, f