"Ah! Monsieur Beeshop, comment vas tu?"
"Tiens! le voilà, Beeshop!"
"Ah, mon ange!" and other affectionate greetings made Bishop start guiltily, and then he discovered Hélène and Marcelle, two saucy little models who had posed at the École. There also was Fannie, formerly (before she drifted to the cafés) our blanchisseuse, leaning heavily upon the arm of son amant, who, a butcher-boy during the day, was now arrayed in a cutaway coat and other things to match, including a red cravat that Fannie herself had tied; but he wore no cuffs. Many other acquaintances presented themselves to Bishop, somewhat to his embarrassment. One, quite a swell member of the demi-monde, for a moment deserted her infatuated companion, a gigantic Martinique negro, gorgeously apparelled, and ran up to tease Bishop to paint her portrait à l'oil, and also to engage him for la prochaine valse.
The musicians were now playing a schottische, but large circles would be formed here and there in the hall, where clever exhibitions of fancy dancing would be given by students and by fashionably gowned damsels with a penchant for displaying their lingerie and hosiery. The front of the band-stand was the favorite place for this. Here four dashing young women were raising a whirlwind of lingerie and slippers, while the crowd applauded and tossed sous at their feet.
Next to us stood a fat, cheery-faced little man, bearing the unmistakable stamp of an American tourist. His hands were in his pockets, his silk hat was tipped back, and his beaming red face and bulging eyes showed the intensity of his enjoyment. Without the slightest warning the slippered foot of one of these dancers found his shining tile and sent it bounding across the floor. For a moment the American was dazed by the suddenness and unearthly neatness of the feat; then he emitted a whoop of wonder and admiration, and in English exclaimed,—"You gol-darned bunch of French skirts—say, you're all right, you are, Marie! Bet you can't do it again!"
He confided to Bishop that his name was Pugson and that he was from Cincinnati.
"Why," he exclaimed, joyously, "Paris is the top of the earth! You artists are an enviable lot, living over here all the time and painting— Gad! look at her!" and he was pushing his way through the crowd to get a better view of an uncommonly startling dancer, who was at the moment an indeterminate fluffy bunch of skirts, linen, and hosiery. Ah, what tales he will tell of Paris when he returns to Cincinnati, and how he will be accused of exaggerating!