"It is Arthémise."
"Arthémise!" said Maurice, taxing his memory in vain to recollect the name.
"Yes; a tall brunette, with whom I formed an acquaintance last year at the Opera-ball; by the same token, you came to sup with us, and made her tipsy."
"Ah! yes," said Maurice, "I remember now. It is she, is it?"
"She has the best chance. I presented her to the concourse. All the Thermopyles have promised me their votes. In three days the general election will take place. To-day we enjoy the preparatory dinner, to-day we spill the wine of Champagne; perhaps after to-morrow we may spill blood! But let them spill what they like, Arthémise shall be goddess, or may the devil carry me away! Come, come, we will help her on with her tunic."
"Thanks; but I have always entertained a repugnance for things of this sort."
"To robe goddesses? Peste! old fellow, you are difficult to please. Let me see; if that does not suit you, I will put her tunic on, and you shall take it off."
"Lorin, I am ill, and not only out of spirits, but the gayety of others makes me miserable."
"Ah, that is it! You frighten me, Maurice; you no longer either laugh or fight. You surely are not engaged in any plot?"
"I? Would to God—"