_houp-là!_ You can go."

Thus dismissed, the unfortunate _aides-de-camp_ could but bow,
and retire in silence. But, though they gave no utterance to their
thoughts, their reflections were of a painful character. They felt
what with five reviews a day, to say nothing of what might be termed
scenes in the circle (attendances at the Bois, dances at the Hôtel de
Ville, and the like), their entire exhaustion was only a question of
weeks, or even days.

One morning the General-President, weary of interviews, was about to
retire into his _salle-à-manger_, there to discuss the twenty-five
courses of his simple _déjeuner à la fourchette_, when he was stopped
by a person in a garb more remarkable for its eccentricity than its
richness. This person wore a coat with tails a yard long, enormous
boots, a battered hat, and a red wig. A close observer would have
doubted whether his nose was real or artificial. The strangely-garbed
intruder bowed grotesquely.

"What do you want with me?" asked the General-President, sharply. "Do
you not know I am busy?"

"Not too busy to see me," retorted the unwelcome guest, striking up a
lively tune upon a banjo which he had concealed about his person while
passing the Palace Guard, but which he now produced. "I pray you step
with me a measure."

Thus courteously invited, His Highness could but comply, and for some
ten minutes host and guest indulged in a breakdown.