the fair Adele from the Pole with as little ceremony as if she had never
had a great-grandfather a marquis, and giving her a shake that might have
roused the dead, thundered out,--

"Speak! Madame Bihl! Are you my wife or not?"

"_Monstre_!" murmured Adele, opening her eyes.

"There--you hear--she owns me!" said the German, appealing to the
company with a triumphant air.

"_C'est vrai_!" said the soft voice of the policeman. And now, pray
don't let us disturb your amusements any longer. We have a fiacre at the
door. Remove your lady, Monsieur Bihl."

"Monsieur Lofe!--Monsieur Lofe!" cried, or rather screeched the
_epicier_, darting across the room, and seizing the _chef_ by the tail of
his coat, just as he was half way through the door, "come back! _Quelle
mauvaise plaisanterie me faites-vous ici_? Did you not tell me that lady
was single? Am I married or not: Do I stand on my head or my heels?"

"Hush-hush! _mon bon bourgeois_!" whispered Mr. Love; "all shall be
explained to-morrow!"

"Who is this gentleman?" asked Monsieur Favart, approaching Mr. Love,
who, seeing himself in for it, suddenly jerked off the _epicier_, thrust
his hands down into his breeches' pockets, buried his chin in his cravat,
elevated his eyebrows, screwed in his eyes, and puffed out his cheeks, so
that the astonished Monsieur Goupille really thought himself bewitched,
and literally did not recognise the face of the match-maker.