umber and artistic arrangement of the wax lights.

I sat down at a small table with a few of my guests, and I received the
most pressing invitations to spend the autumn in their town. I am sure
that if I had accepted I should have been treated like a prince, for the
nobility of Grenoble bear the highest character for hospitality. I told
them that if it had been possible I should have had the greatest pleasure
in accepting their invitation, and in that case I should have been
delighted to have made the acquaintance of the family of an illustrious
gentleman, a friend of my father's.

"What name is it?" they asked me, altogether.

"Bouchenu de Valbonnais."

"He was my uncle. Ah! sir, you must come and stay with us. You danced
with my daughter. What was your father's name?"

This story, which I invented, and uttered as I was wont, on the spur of
the moment, turned me into a sort of wonder in the eyes of the worthy
people.

After we had laughed, jested, drank, and eaten, we rose from the table
and began to dance anew.

Seeing Madame Morin, her niece, and Valenglard going into the garden, I
followed them, and as we walked in the moonlight I led the fair Mdlle.
Roman through a covered alley; but all my fine speeches were in vain; I
could do nothing. I held her between my arms, I covered her with burning
kisses, but not one did she return to me, and her hands offered a
successful resistance to my hardy attempts. By a sudden effort, however,
I at last attained the porch of the temple of love, and held her in such
a way that further resistance would have been of no avail; but she
stopped me short by saying in a voice which no man of feeling could have
resisted,--

"Be my friend, sir, and not my enemy and the cause of my ruin."

I knelt before her, and taking her hand begged her pardon, swearing not
to renew my attempts. I then rose and asked her to kiss me as a pledge of
her forgiveness. We rejoined her aunt, and returned to the ball-room, but
with all my endeavours I could not regain my calm.

I sat down in a corner of the room, and I asked Rose, who passed by me,
to get me a glass of lemonade. When she brought it she gently chid me for
not having danced with her, her sister, or her cousin.

"It will give people but a poor opinion of our merits."

"I am tired," said I, "but if you will promise to be kind I will dance a
minuet with you."

"What do want me to do?" said she.

"Go into my bedroom and wait for me the