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Monsieur Pantoufle had recovered a portion of his habitual
equanimity. The numerous “sacres,” he had uttered
were so many safety valves for his pent up anger.
He had replaced under his arm the indispensable cocked
hat which in the torrent of his wrath had fallen to the
floor, and was amusing himself by making passes at a
wooden figure representing a man which stood near his
harpsichord—which exercise he accompanied with many
stamps of the feet and contortions of visage.

“Well, Monsieur Pantoufle,” said the young man, “I
have succeeded in persuading Mr. Barlow not to force you
to accept that coat, but on the contrary to sell it to me.
The fact is 'tis not a Louis XIV. fashion.”

“Never! but sell it to you.”

“To me.”

“You want it?”

“Yes. Do you object to my having the coat?”

“Oh, not so my young friend. 'Tis a grand favor to
persuade that canaille to take it back. Je vous remercie.”

“I know what that means. It means, `I thank you.'
I wish you would teach me French, Monsieur Pantoufle,
you speak it with such elegance.”

“Ah! Monsieur Max, you flatter me.”

“Oh, no, Monsieur Pantoufle.”

“Ah, yes—” said the Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders;
“you are ver polite.”

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“Not half as polite as you, Monsieur.”

“You do me honor,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, bowing.

“Oh, I'm but a boy: you are a great traveler,” replied
Max with a bow still lower.

“We shall be friends, Monsieur Max,” said the delighted
fencing master, whose greatest ambition was the reputation
of a traveled man, who had seen the world. “You
shall come see me—we shall fence, we shall play violin
together; I shall give you lessons in the dance.”

“Oh, I already dance tolerably well—the minuet I like
the most.”

“All the other dance is nothing.”

“That is royal, is it not?”

“His grand majesty Louis XIV. dance nothing else
all his life.”

“Indeed!”

“'Tis true.”

“Well, I can dance the minuet, and I often go to the
convent over there—the Sisters of Mercy you know—and
dance it with them.”

“You dance minuet there?”

“Oh yes—with Miss —, but you don't know her,
Monsieur Pantoufle.”

“Who? ah, your amie, Monsieur Max!”

“No, no, but Monsieur Pantoufle, I have just thought
of a project for increasing your number of scholars. You
have a good many, have you not?”

“Yes, yes, and I think the most charming, the most
elegant, is Mademoiselle Nina.”

“Thank you, Monsieur. Well my scheme was to introduce
you into the convent. You know my aunt is Superior.”

“Introduce me into the convent?” asked Monsieur
Pantoufle, in astonishment.

“Oh, it is not strictly a convent, far from it. We call
it so for fun. It is a Catholic school—very strict though.

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Now, I think, I could prevail on aunt Courtlandt to let
her scholars take dancing lessons.”

Monsieur Pantoufle's face beamed with delight.

“There are forty or fifty,” continued Max; “now say
thirty take lessons.”

“Will that many dance, think you?”

“At least—oh, at least thirty. Well, thirty at—how
much?”

“Twenty dollar a whole year.”

“Thirty at twenty dollars would be—would it not,
Monsieur Pantoufle—six hundred dollars.”

Monsieur Pantoufle stretched out his arms, and embraced
the young man.

“'Tis magnificent!” he cried.

“Six hundred dollars is a nice sum, Monsieur Pantoufle.
It will buy a heap of things; ever so much of that nice
hair-powder I see on your toilet, for instance. Let me
see what it is made of, Monsieur Pantoufle.”

The Frenchman skipped to the toilet table and brought
the box.

“Oh, what nice perfume there is in it!” cried Max,
taking up in his fingers a portion of the fragrant powder.

“'Tis my Paris receipt, Monsieur Max.”

“Oh, how nice. How pleasant it must feel on the head.”

“Magnificent!”

“I should like so much to have my head powdered for
once, like those fine gentlemen who pass in their curricles
with their fair topped boots, and silk stockings to the
parties. I should feel like a lord.”

“Take—take, my young friend.”

“No, I would never know how to put it on.”

“Rub—rub—'tis all.”

“I couldn't. Now if some of my friends were only here
to put a little on my head!”

“I will myself, Monsieur Max. I am ver good friend
to you.”

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“O, I couldn't think of it, Monsieur Pantoufle!” cried
Max laughing.

“'Tis nothing—sit down.”

“Never, never, Monsieur Pantoufle!”

“'Tis no trouble.”

“A man of your standing, think, Monsicur Pantoufle!”

“For a friend, Monsieur Max!”

Max sat down with a laugh.

“Well, how can I thank you sufficiently! Just a little,
Monsieur Pantoufle!”

The Frenchman went through the operation of powdering
with the ease and celerity of his nation—that nation
which does every thing gracefully, from overturning
a throne to seasoning a sauce.

Max rose from the operation with a delicious feeling
about the coronal region, and snuffing in clouds of delicate
perfume. It seemed to him that some magical influence
had suddenly converted him into a large bouquet,
redolent of a thousand odors.

He looked in the large mirror; a snow storm seemed to
have descended on his long curling hair, and on his
shoulders.

“O,” cried Max, putting on his hat, “how sweet it
is! How obliging you are, Monsieur Pantoufle! How
can I thank you. I never can!”

“'Tis nothing—'tis nothing,” said Monsieur Pantoufle,
politely.

“And now good morning, Monsieur Pantoufle, I must
go to aunt Courtlandt's. I'll remember what I said about
the dancing.”

“And so I will,” said Max to himself, as he went out,
“though I did promise only to get my head powdered.”

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