triumph.

It was no other than the happy Mirobolant whom Blanche had selected as
an escort. But the truth is, that the young lady had never fairly looked
in the artist's face since he had been employed in her mother's family,
and had no idea but it was a foreign nobleman on whose arm she was
leaning. As she went off, Pen forgot his humiliation in his surprise,
and cried out, "By Jove, it's the cook!"

The instant he had uttered the words, he was sorry for having spoken
them--for it was Blanche who had herself invited Mirobolant to escort
her, nor could the artist do otherwise than comply with a lady's
command. Blanche in her flutter did not hear what Arthur said; but
Mirobolant heard him, and cast a furious glance at him over his
shoulder, which rather amused Mr. Pen. He was in a mischievous and sulky
humour; wanting perhaps to pick a quarrel with somebody; but the idea
of having insulted a cook, or that such an individual should have any
feeling of honour at all, did not much enter into the mind of this lofty
young aristocrat, the apothecary's son.

It had never entered that poor artist's head, that he as a man was not
equal to any other mortal, or that there was anything in his position so
degrading as to prevent him from giving his arm to a lady who asked
for it. He had seen in the fetes in his own country fine ladies, not
certainly demoiselles (but the demoiselle Anglaise he knew was a great
deal more free than the spinster in France), join in the dance with
Blaise or Pierre; and he would have taken Blanche up to Lady
Clavering, and possibly have asked her to dance too, but he heard
Pen's exclamation, which struck him as if it had shot him, and cruelly
humiliated and angered him. She did not know what caused him to start,
and to grind a Gascon oath between his teeth.

But Strong, who was acquainted with the poor fellow's state of mind,
having had the interesting information from our friend Madame Fribsby,
was luckily in the way when wanted, and saying something rapidly in
Spanish, which the other understood, the Chevalier begged Miss Amory to
come and take an ice before she went back to Lady Clavering. Upon which
the unhappy Mirobolant relinquished the arm which he had held for a
minute, and with a most profound and piteous bow, fell back. "Don't you
know who it is?" Strong asked of Miss Amory, as he led her away. "It is
the chef Mirobolant."

"How should I know?" asked Blanche. "He has a croix; he is very
dis