ds by the courteous, so seeming
amiable gentleman who was its head.

About him at this moment were grouped some of the joyous members of that
jovial sodality. There was Navailles, the brisk, the dissolute, the
witty, always ready to risk everything, including honor, for a cast of
the dice, for a kiss, for a pleasure or a revenge. There was Noce,
pleasure-loving, pleasure-giving, always good-tempered, always
good-humored, always serenely confident that the world as it existed was
made chiefly for his amusement and the amusement of his friends. There
was Taranne, a darker spirit, as ready as the rest of the fellowship to
take the wine of life from the cup of joy in the hands of the
dancing-girl, but a less genial drinker, a less cheerful and perhaps more
greedy lover and feaster, as one who dimly and imperfectly appreciates
that the conditions of things about him might not be destined to endure
forever, and was, therefore, resolved to get as much of his share of the
spoil of the sport while it lasted as any bandit of them all. There, too,
was Oriol, the fat country gentleman, at once the richest and most
foolish of the company. There, too, was Albret, who loved women more than
wine; and Gironne, who loved wine more than women; and Choisy, who never
knew which to love the best, but with whom both disagreed.

At the present moment the party was extremely hilarious. Its members had
ransacked the toy-shops of the fair, and every man was carrying some
plaything and making the most of it, and extolling its greater virtues
than the playthings of his fellows. Taranne carried a pea-shooter, and
peppered his companion's legs persistently, grinning with delight if any
of his victims showed irritation. Oriol had got a large trumpet, and was
blowing it lustily. Noce had bought a cup-and-ball, and was trying, not
very successfully, to induce the sphere to abide in the hollow prepared
for it. Navailles had got a large Pulcinello doll that squeaked, and was
pretending to treat it as an oracle, and to interpret its mechanical
utterances as profound comments on his companions and prophecies as to
their fortunes. Albret was tripping over a skipping-rope; Gironne puffed
at a spinning windmill; Choisy played on a bagpipes, and Montaubert on a
flute. In the background Monsieur Peyrolles watched all this mirthfulness
with indifference and his master's face with attention.

Gonzague looked round upon his friends with the indulgent smile of a
s