"Anything that the ladies will kindly give me, Sir," I replied in our native tongue.
"Hullo! English? What are you knocking about France for?"
I glanced at the lovely lady. She was crumbling bread and not taking the least notice of me. I was piqued.
"My Master thinks it the best way to teach me philosophy, Sir," said I politely. If I had not learned much philosophy from him I had at least learned politeness. The lady looked up with a smile. The young girl exclaimed that either my remark or myself—I forget which—was ripping. I paid little heed to her. I have always disregarded the people of one adjective; they seem poverty-stricken to one who has sunned himself in the wealth of Paragot's epithets.
"Your master is the gentleman in the pearl buttons?" enquired the young man.
"Yes, Sir."
"What's his name?"
"Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot, Sir," said I so proudly that the lovely princess laughed.
"I must look at him," she said turning round in her chair.
I too glanced at the familiar group on the platform: Laripet with his back to us, working his arms and shoulders at the piano; Blanquette seated on the other side, thrumming away at the zither on her lap; Narcisse lolling his tongue in that cynical grin of his; and Paragot fiddling in front, like a fiddler possessed, his clear eyes fixed on the lady in a most uncanny stare.