"Ah! that's a very pretty way!—It's my turn; fill my glass, old fellow, and sing; I'm ready."
Roncherolle sang and Mademoiselle Zizi drank, answered bon, and swallowed her wine at one gulp.
"You went a little fast," said the professor; "but never mind, you'll do it all right."
"My turn!" cried Alfred, lifting his glass in a hand that was far from steady. "Sing, and you'll see; I'm sure of succeeding at this method; I am waiting at the post."
Mademoiselle Zizi sang the ballad. At the first bon bon! Saint-Arthur spilt his wine on the floor; at the second he struck his nose with his glass; and at the third he swallowed the wrong way and strangled; they were obliged to pound him on the back and make him look at the ceiling, in order to bring him to life.
"My dear boy, I think that you have done enough for to-day," said Zizi; "you are not adroit to-night, and I don't want you to learn any more ways.—Great heaven! it's nine o'clock! I must go and dress—I wear a costume that it takes a long while to put on.—I say, I'm a little dizzy; but no matter! it will pass off on the stage.—Adieu, monsieur; I hope to see you again."
"Are you going away alone?"
"I have only to cross the boulevard. Alfred, you will come to my dressing-room for me at half-past eleven, not a minute earlier; I forbid you."
"Yes, dear angel.—Isn't she enchanting, neighbor, with that little demoniacal expression?"
"And he'd like me not to love anybody but him, the idiot!" whispered Zizi in Roncherolle's ear; "can you imagine such conceit?"