_Me voici!_" Carried away by the force of his own eloquence, the Chevalier fell into an attitude at the conclusion of his little speech; but remembering where he was, blushed, and bowed again.
"Pshaw," said my father impatiently, "the man's a conjuror." The little Frenchman did not hear him.

He was at that moment untying a packet which he carried in his hat, the contents whereof appeared to consist of a number of very small pink and yellow cards.

Selecting a couple of each color, he deposited his hat carefully upon the floor and came a few steps nearer to the table.
"Monsieur will give me the hope to see him, with Monsieur _son fils_, at my Soiree Fantastique, _n'est-ce pas ?_" he asked, timidly.
"Sir," said my father shortly, "I never encourage peripatetic mendicity." The little Frenchman looked puzzled.
"_Comment_ ?" said he, and glanced to me for an explanation.
"I am very sorry, Monsieur," I interposed hastily; "but my father objects to public entertainments." "_Ah, mon Dieu!_ but not to this," cried the Chevalier, raising his hands and eyes in deprecating astonishment.

"Not to my Soiree Fantastique! The art of legerdemain, Monsieur, is not immoral.

He is graceful--he is surprising--he is innocent; and, Monsieur, he is patronized by the Church; he is patronized by your amiable _Cure_, Monsieur le Docteur Brand." "Oh, father," I exclaimed, "Dr.Brand has taken tickets!" "And pray, sir, what's that to me ?" growled my father, without looking up from the book which he had ungraciously resumed.