es," said Carabine. "I want some
better than hers."

Du Tillet came with the Brazilian, the hero of the feast; the Duc
d'Herouville followed with Josepha. The singer wore a plain velvet
gown, but she had on a necklace worth a hundred and twenty thousand
francs, pearls hardly distinguishable from her skin like white
camellia petals. She had stuck one scarlet camellia in her black hair
--a patch--the effect was dazzling, and she had amused herself by
putting eleven rows of pearls on each arm. As she shook hands with
Jenny Cadine, the actress said, "Lend me your mittens!"

Josepha unclasped them one by one and handed them to her friend on a
plate.

"There's style!" said Carabine. "Quite the Duchess! You have robbed
the ocean to dress the nymph, Monsieur le Duc," she added turning to
the little Duc d'Herouville.

The actress took two of the bracelets; she clasped the other twenty on
the singer's beautiful arms, which she kissed.

Lousteau, the literary cadger, la Palferine and Malaga, Massol,
Vauvinet, and Theodore Gaillard, a proprietor of one of the most
important political newspapers, completed the party. The Duc
d'Herouville, polite to everybody, as a fine gentleman knows how to
be, greeted the Comte de la Palferine with the particular nod which,
while it does not imply either esteem or intimacy, conveys to all the
world, "We are of the same race, the same blood--equals!"--And this
greeting, the shibboleth of the aristocracy, was invented to be the
despair of the upper citizen class.

Carabine placed Combabus on her left, and the Duc d'Herouville on her
right. Cydalise was next to the Brazilian, and beyond her was Bixiou.
Malaga sat by the Duke.

Oysters appeared at seven o'clock; at eight they were drinking iced
punch. Every one is familiar with the bill of fare of such a banquet.
By nine o'clock they were talking as people talk after forty-two
bottles of various wines, drunk by fourteen persons. Dessert was on
the table, the odious dessert of the month of April. Of all the party,
the only one affected by the heady atmosphere was Cydalise, who was
humming a tune. None of the party, with the exception of the poor
country girl, had lost their reason; the drinkers and the women were
the experienced _elite_ of the society that sups. Their wits were
bright, their eyes glistened, but with no loss of intelligence, though
the talk drifted into satire, anecdote, and gossip. Conversation,
hitherto confined to the inevi