[The coquette, who subjugates a heart, yet refuses its tender
homage, one may treat as a conqueror: of modest beauty we cherish
the slavery.]

"I present it to Mademoiselle," said he, laying the motto solemnly in
Adele's plate, upon a little mountain of chestnut-husks.

"It is very pretty," said she, looking down.

"It is very _a propos_," whispered the _epicier_, caressing the _peruque_
a little too roughly in his emotion. Mr. Love gave him a kick under the
table, and put his finger to his own bald head, and then to his nose,
significantly. The intelligent _epicier_ smoothed back the irritated
_peruque_.

"Are you fond of _bon-bons_, Mademoiselle Adele? I have a very fine
stock at home," said Monsieur Goupille. Mademoiselle Adele de Courval
sighed: "_Helas_! they remind me of happier days, when I was a _petite_
and my dear grandmamma took me in her lap and told me how she escaped the
guillotine: she was an _emigree_, and you know her father was a marquis."

The _epicier_ bowed and looked puzzled. He did not quite see the
connection between the _bon-bons_ and the guillotine. "You are _triste_,
Monsieur," observed Madame Beavor, in rather a piqued tone, to the Pole,
who had not said a word since the _roti_.

"Madame, an exile is always _triste_: I think of my _pauvre pays_."

"Bah!" cried Mr. Love. "Think that there is no exile by the side of a