On entering the Rue des Augustins, he was struck by the sound of instruments and voices in the street at that late hour.
"Is there a wedding here ?" thought he, "I have not long to sleep, and now this will keep me awake." As he advanced, he saw a dozen flambeaux carried by pages, while thirty musicians were playing on different instruments.

The band was stationed before a house, that Chicot, with surprise, recognized as his own.

He remained for an instant stupefied, and then said to himself, "There must be some mistake; all this noise cannot be for me.

Unless, indeed, some unknown princess has suddenly fallen in love with me." This supposition, flattering as it was, did not appear to convince Chicot, and he turned toward the house facing his, but it showed no signs of life.
"They must sleep soundly, there," said he; "such a noise is enough to wake the dead." "Pardon me, my friend," said he, addressing himself to a torch-bearer, "but can you tell me, if you please, who all this music is for ?" "For the bourgeois who lives there." replied he, pointing out to Chicot his own house.
"Decidedly it is for me!" thought he.

"Whom do you belong to ?" he asked.
"To the bourgeois who lives there." "Ah! they not only come for me, but they belong to me--still better.
Well! we shall see," and piercing through the crowd, he opened his door, went upstairs, and appeared at his balcony, in which he placed a chair and sat down.
"Gentlemen," said he, "are you sure there is no mistake?
is all this really for me ?" "Are you M.Robert Briquet ?" "Himself." "Then we are at your service, monsieur," said the leader of the band, giving the sign to recommence.
"Certainly it is unintelligible," thought Chicot.