ceful countenances, ugly or
handsome features--but all animated by the feverish excitement of a
jovial frenzy--all turned with an expression of fanatical admiration
towards the second carriage, in which the Queen was enthroned, whilst
they united with the multitude in reiterated shouts of "Long live the
Bacchanal Queen."

This second carriage, open like the first, contained only the four
dancers of the famous step of the Storm-blown Tulip--Ninny Moulin, Rose
Pompon, Sleepinbuff, and the Bacchanal Queen.

Dumoulin, the religious writer, who wished to dispute possession of Mme.
de la Sainte-Colombe with his patron, M. Rodin--Dumoulin, surnamed Ninny
Moulin, standing on the front cushions, would have presented a
magnificent study for Callot or Gavarni, that eminent artist, who unites
with the biting strength and marvellous fancy of an illustrious
caricaturist, the grace, the poetry, and the depth of Hogarth.

Ninny Moulin, who was about thirty-five years of age, wore very much back
upon his head a Roman helmet of silver paper. A voluminous plume of black
feathers, rising from a red wood holder, was stuck on one side of this
headgear, breaking the too classic regularity of its outline. Beneath
this casque, shone forth the most rubicund and jovial face, that ever was
purpled by the fumes of generous wine. A prominent nose, with its
primitive shape modestly concealed beneath a luxuriant growth of pimples,
half red, half violet, gave a funny expression to a perfectly beardless
face; while a large mouth, with thick lips turning their insides
outwards, added to the air of mirth and jollity which beamed from his
large gray eyes, set flat in his head.

On seeing this joyous fellow, with a paunch like Silenus, one could not
help asking how it was, that he had not drowned in wine, a hundred times
over, the gall, bile, and venom which flowed from his pamphlets against
the enemies of Ultramontanism, and how his Catholic beliefs could float
upwards in the midst of these mad excesses of drink and dancing. The
question would have appeared insoluble, if one had not remembered how
many actors, who play the blackest and most hateful first robbers on the
stage, are, when off it, the best fellow in the world.

The weather being cold, Ninny Moulin wore a kind of box-coat, which,
being half-open, displayed his cuirass of scales, and his flesh-colored
pantaloons, finishing just below the calf in a pair of yellow tops to his
boots. Leaning f