drink! bottles and glasses! the throats
are dry! brandy to the rescue! Largess! largess!"

And, like a true champion of the tournament, he embraced Modeste,
adding, to excuse the liberty: "Love, you shall be the Queen of Beauty,
and I am only anticipating the victor's happiness!"

"Brandy to the rescue!" repeated they all, in chorus. "Largess!"

"Gentlemen," added Ninny Moulin, with enthusiasm, "shall we remain
indifferent to the noble example set us by Goodman Cholera? He said in
his pride, 'brandy!' Let us gloriously answer, 'punch!'"

"Yes, yes! punch!"

"Punch to the rescue!"

"Waiter!" shouted the religious writer, with the voice of a Stentor,
"waiter! have you a pan, a caldron, a hogshead, or any other immensity,
in which we can brew a monster punch?"

"A Babylonian punch!"

"A lake of punch!"

"An ocean of punch!"

Such was the ambitious crescendo that followed the proposition of Ninny
Moulin.

"Sir," answered the waiter, with an air of triumph, "we just happen to
have a large copper caldron, quite new. It has been used, and would hold
at least thirty bottles."

"Bring the caldron!" said Ninny Moulin, majestically.

"The caldron forever!" shouted the chorus.

"Put in twenty bottles of brandy, six loaves of sugar, a dozen lemons, a
pound of cinnamon, and then--fire! fire!" shouted the religious writer,
with the most vociferous exclamations.

"Yes, yes! fire!" repeated the chorus!

The proposition of Ninny Moulin gave a new impetus to the general
gayety; the most extravagant remarks were mingled with the sound of
kisses, taken or given under the pretext that perhaps there would be
no to-morrow, that one must make the most of the present, etc., etc.
Suddenly, in one of the moments of silence which sometimes occur in the
midst of the greatest tumult, a succession of slow and measured taps
sounded above the ceiling of the banqueting-room. All remained silent,
and listened.

CHAPTER XXI. BRANDY TO THE RESCUE.

After the lapse of some seconds, the singular rapping which had so much
surprised the guests, was again heard, but this time louder and longer.

"Waiter!" cried one of the party, "what in the devil's name is
knocking?"

The waiter, exchanging with his comrades a look of uneasiness and alarm,
stammered Out in reply: "Sir--it is--it is--"

"Well! I suppose it is some crabbed, cross-grained lodger, some animal,
the enemy of joy, who is pounding on the floor of his room to warn us to