bow
upon the table, told him his tales of love, Amedee gazed out upon the
sidewalk at the women who passed by in fresh toilettes, in the gaslight
which illuminated the green foliage, giving a little nod of the head to
those whom they knew. There was voluptuousness in the very air, and it
was Amedee who arose from the table and recalled to Maurice that it was
Thursday, and that there was a fete that night at Bullier's; and he also
was the one to add, with a deliberate air:

"Shall we take a turn there?"

"Willingly," replied his gay friend. "Ah, ha! we are then beginning to
enjoy ourselves a little, Monsieur Violette! Go to Bullier's? so be
it. I am not sorry to assure myself whether or not I still love the
Parisians."

They started off, smoking their cigarettes. Upon the highway, going
in the same direction as themselves, were victorias carrying women in
spring costumes and wearing bonnets decked with flowers. From time to
time the friends were elbowed by students shouting popular refrains and
walking in Indian-file.

Here is Bullier's! They step into the blazing entrance, and go thence
to the stairway which leads to the celebrated public ballroom. They are
stifled by the odor of dust, escaping gas, and human flesh. Alas! there
are in every village in France doctors in hansom cabs, country lawyers,
and any quantity of justices of the peace, who, I can assure you, regret
this stench as they take the fresh air in the open country under the
starry heavens, breathing the exquisite perfume of new-mown hay; for
it is mingled with the little poetry that they have had in their lives,
with their student's love-affairs, and their youth.

All the same, this Bullier's is a low place, a caricature of the
Alhambra in pasteboard. Three or four thousand moving heads in a cloud
of tobacco-smoke, and an exasperating orchestra playing a quadrille in
which dancers twist and turn, tossing their legs with calm faces and
audacious gestures.

"What a mob!" said Amedee, already a trifle disgusted. "Let us go into
the garden."

They were blinded by the gas there; the thickets looked so much like
old scenery that one almost expected to see the yellow breastplates of
comic-opera dragoons; and the jet of water recalled one of those little
spurts of a shooting-gallery upon which an empty egg-shell dances. But
they could breathe there a little.

"Boy! two sodas," said Maurice, striking the table with his cane; and
the two friends sat down