's lips, "Rodolphe is too lively, far too lively."

"He is charming," replied a young woman to whom Rodolphe had just
offered a bouquet, "and although he is very badly got up I would
willingly compromise myself by dancing with him if he would invite me."

Two seconds later Rodolphe, who had overheard her, was at her feet,
enveloping his invitation in a speech, scented with all the musk and
benjamin of a gallantry at eighty degrees Richelieu. The lady was
confounded by the language sparkling with dazzling adjectives and
phrases modelled on those in vogue during the Regency, and the
invitation was accepted.

Rodolphe was as ignorant of the elements of dancing as of the rule of
three. But he was impelled by an extraordinary audacity. He did not
hesitate, but improvised a dance unknown to all bygone choreography. It
was a step the originality of which obtained an incredible success, and
that has been celebrated under the title of "regrets and sighs." It was
all very well for the three thousand jets of gas to blink at him,
Rodolphe went on at it all the same, and continued to pour out a flood
of novel madrigals to his partner.

"Well," said Marcel, "this is incredible. Rodolphe reminds me of a
drunken man rolling amongst broken glass."

"At any rate he has got hold of a deuced fine woman," said another,
seeing Rodolphe about to leave with his partner.

"Won't you say good night?" cried Marcel after him.

Rodolphe came back to the artist and held out his hand, it was cold and
damp as a wet stone.

Rodolphe's companion was a strapping Normandy wench, whose native
rusticity had promptly acquired an aristocratic tinge amidst the
elegancies of Parisian luxury and an idle life. She was styled Madame
Seraphine, and was for the time being mistress of an incarnate
rheumatism in the shape of a peer of France, who gave her fifty louis a
month, which she shared with a counter-jumper who gave her nothing but
hard knocks. Rodolphe had pleased her, she hoped that he would not think
of giving her anything, and took him off home with her.

"Lucille," said she to her waiting maid, "I am not at home to anyone."
And passing into her bedroom, she came out ten minutes later, in a
special costume. She found Rodolphe dumb and motionless, for since he
had come in he had been plunged, despite himself, into a gloom full of
silent sobs.

"Why you no longer look at me or speak to me!" said the astonished
Seraphine.

"Come," said Rodolphe t