drink a glassful of champagne to the health of each man there.
There were sixty when you came to count them. He commenced the
round of the table and the affair went splendidly up to the
fifty-eighth man. But at the fifty-ninth - think of the
misfortune! - the champagne ran out! That poor, that charming,
that excellent Charles took up a glass of vin dore which was in the
glass of this fifty-ninth, wished him long life, drained the glass
at one draught, had just time to murmur, 'Tokay, 1807,' and fell
back dead! Ah, he knew the brands, my word! and he proved it to
his last breath! Peace to his ashes! They asked what he died of.
I knew he died because of the inappropriate blend of flavors. There
should be discipline in all things and not promiscuous mixing. One
more glass of champagne and he would have been drinking with us
this evening. Your health, Matrena Petrovna. Champagne, Feodor
Feodorovitch! Vive la France, monsieur! Natacha, my child, you
must sing something. Boris will accompany you on the guzla. Your
father will enjoy it."

All eyes turned toward Natacha as she rose.

Rouletabille was struck by her serene beauty. That was the first
enthralling impression, an impression so strong it astonished him,
the perfect serenity, the supreme calm, the tranquil harmony of her
noble features. Natacha was twenty. Heavy brown hair circled about
er forehead and was looped about her ears, which were half-concealed.
Her profile was clear-cut; her mouth was strong and revealed between
red, firm lips the even pearliness of her teeth. She was of medium
height. In walking she had the free, light step of the highborn
maidens who, in primal times, pressed the flowers as they passed
without crushing them. But all her true grace seemed to be