ut how matters stood in
Tong-King, and about our representatives in Parliament. Madame Chantal, a
fat lady, whose ideas always gave me the impression of being carved out
square like building stones, was accustomed to exclaiming at the end of
every political discussion: "All that is seed which does not promise much
for the future!" Why have I always imagined that Madame Chantal's ideas
are square? I don't know; but everything that she says takes that shape
in my head: a big square, with four symmetrical angles. There are other
people whose ideas always strike me as being round and rolling like a
hoop. As soon as they begin a sentence on any subject it rolls on and on,
coming out in ten, twenty, fifty round ideas, large and small, which I
see rolling along, one behind the other, to the end of the horizon. Other
people have pointed ideas--but enough of this.

We sat down as usual and finished our dinner without anything out of the
ordinary being said. At dessert the Twelfth Night cake was brought on.
Now, M. Chantal had been king every year. I don't know whether this was
the result of continued chance or a family convention, but he unfailingly
found the bean in his piece of cake, and he would proclaim Madame Chantal
to be queen. Therefore, I was greatly surprised to find something very
hard, which almost made me break a tooth, in a mouthful of cake. Gently I
took this thing from my mouth and I saw that it was a little porcelain
doll, no bigger than a bean. Surprise caused me to exclaim:

"Ah!" All looked at me, and Chantal clapped his hands and cried: "It's
Gaston! It's Gaston! Long live the king! Long live the king!"

All took up the chorus: "Long live the king!" And I blushed to the tip of
my ears, as one often does, without any reason at all, in situations
which are a little foolish. I sat there looking at my plate, with this
absurd little bit of pottery in my fingers, forcing myself to laugh and
not knowing what to do or say, when Chantal once more cried out: "Now,
you must choose a queen!"

Then I was thunderstruck. In a second a thousand thoughts and
suppositions flashed through my mind. Did they expect me to pick out one
of the young Chantal ladies? Was that a trick to make me say which one I
prefer? Was it a gentle, light, direct hint of the parents toward a
possible marriage? The idea of marriage roams continually in houses with
grown-up girls, and takes every shape and disguise, and employs every
subterfuge. A