“Henri has no eyes for anybody,” exclaimed Pauline, with a laugh.  “Ah, good-day, Henri!”

Thereupon he advanced towards the group of ladies, with a courteous greeting.  Mademoiselle Aurelie, who was amongst them, engaged his attention for the moment to point out to him a nephew whom she had brought with her.  He was all complaisance.  Helene, without speaking, gave him her hand, encased in its black glove, but he dared not clasp it with marked force.

“Oh! here you are!” said Madame Deberle, as she appeared beside them.  “I have been looking for you everywhere.  It is nearly three o’clock; they had better begin.”

“Certainly; at once,” was his reply.

The drawing-room was now crowded.  All round it, in the brilliant glare thrown from the chandelier, sat the fathers and mothers, their walking costumes serving to fringe the circle with less vivid colors.  Some ladies, drawing their chairs together, formed groups; men standing motionless along the walls filled up the gaps; while in the doorway leading to the next room a cluster of frock-coated guests could be seen crowding together and peering over each other’s shoulders.  The light fell wholly on the little folks, noisy in their glee, as they rustled about in their seats in the centre of the large room.  There were almost a hundred children packed together; in an endless variety of gay costumes, bright with blue and red.  It was like a sea of fair heads, varying from pale yellow to ruddy gold, with here and there bows and flowers gleaming vividly—­or like a field of ripe grain, spangled with poppies and cornflowers, and waving to and fro as though stirred by a breeze.  At times, amidst this confusion of ribbons and lace, of silk and velvet, a face was turned round—­a pink nose, a pair of blue eyes, a smiling or pouting little mouth.  There were some, no higher than one’s boots, who were buried out of sight between big lads of ten years of age, and whom their mothers sought from a distance, but in vain.  A few of the boys looked bored and foolish by the side of girls who were busy spreading out their skirts.  Some, however, were already very venturesome, jogging the elbows of their fair neighbors with whom they were unacquainted, and laughing in their faces.  But the royalty of the gathering remained with the girls, some of whom, clustering in groups, stirred about in such a way as to threaten destruction to their chairs, and chattered so loudly that the grown-up folks could no longer hear one another speaking.  And all eyes were intently gazing at the red curtain.

Slowly was it drawn aside, and in the recess of the doorway appeared a puppet-show.  There was a hushed silence.  Then all at once Punch sprang in, with so ferocious a yell that baby Guiraud could not restrain a responsive cry of terror and delight.  It was one of those bloodthirsty dramas in which Punch, having administered a sound beating to the magistrate, murders the policeman, and tramples with ferocious glee on