was debited to Vicesimo Mercautori,
Pharmacien-Droguiste, in the sum of three
hundred francs, otherwise, twelve pounds sterling,
for goods by him supplied. Mrs. Piccolo went
into hysterics. Piccolo was moved to call
Doctor Mercantori injurious names; but, as
that, learned pharmacien and druggist was
some hundreds of miles away, the reproaches
cannot have done him much harm. The
worst was yet to come. Piccolo was rash
enough to remonstrate with the Perigord.
Miserable man! The Perigord incontinently
proceeded to demolish him.  She abused him
in French—she abused him in Italian—she
abused him in English.  She wrote him
letters in all sorts of languages.  She stamped
in his music-warehouse and shook the dust
from off her feet on the threshold.  She sent
Girolamo Bastoggi, Avocato of Turin, to him,
who spoke of "la giustizia" and snuffed
horribly.  She even sent her mother (the Perigord
had a mother at that time), a dreadful old
female with a red cotton pocket-handkerchief
tied around her head, and outrageously snuffy.
The old lady's embassy was not fertile in
conversation, but it was dreadfully contemptuous.
After expressing her opinion that England
was a "fichu pays," she looked round upon
the assembled Piccolo family, said, "Vous
êtes toutes des—pouah!" snapped her
fingers, expectorated, and vanished. The
unhappy Piccolo would only have been too
happy to pay the disputed twelve pounds,
but Mercantori's demands all merged into the
grievous wrong that had been done Madame
Perigord. She had been touched in her
honour, her loyalty, her good faith. She
spoke of Piccolo as an infame, a man of
nothing, a music-master, a gredin. She
mocked herself of him.

There is a domestic animal attached to
the Perigord's establishment in the capacity
of husband: a poor, weak-eyed, weak-minded
man, in a long brown coat, who leads a sorry
life. He is supposed to have been, in early
Life, a dancing master in France; and Madame
married him (it can scarcely be said that he
married her) under the impression that he
had "rentes," or income—which he had
not. He fetches the beer; he transposes
Madame Perigord's music; he folds circulars
and seals tickets when she gives a concert.
The maid patronises him, and his children do
not exactly know what to make of him.
They call him "ce drôle de papa." His
principal consolation is in the society of
a very large hairy dog, called Coco, over
which he maintains unbending authority,
teaching him the manual exercise with much
sternness.  The satirical say that Madame
Perigord's husband dines in the kitchen,
and varnishes his wife's boots when she
plays male parts.  When she goes to Paris, it
is reported that she puts him out to board
and lodge, at a cookshop in the Marais; leaving
him behind while she visits Brussels or
the Rhine with her daughters.  It is certain
that she made a long operatic tour in the
United States, leaving her husband in London,
and that, as she forgot to remit him any money,
the unhappy man was reduced to great straits.

Here come a face and a pair of legs, I
know very well. How do you do, Golopin?
Golopin is the first flautist of the day. He
is almost a dwarf. He is within a hair's
breadth of being humpbacked. He has a
very old, large, white head, under which is a
little, old, tanned, yellow face. He plays the
flute admirably, but in private life he squeaks
and scratches himself. Golopin's chiefest
reminiscence, greatest glory, most favourite topic
of conversation, is the fact that he was once
kicked by the Emperor Napoleon. " In the
year nine," he says, " I find myself called to
play of my instrument at one of the musical
entertainments give by the Emperor and
King at the Tuileries. Pending the evening,
feeling myself attained by an ardent thirst, I
retire myself into the saloon at refreshments
prepared for the artists. In train to help
myself from the buffet, I perceive myself
that the ribbon of my shoe had become
loose. It was justly then the fashion to wear
the culotte courte of white kerseymere, with
silk stockings. I stoop myself down then
to adjust my shoestring, having my back to
the door, when I hear itself roll upon the hinges
The with a movement of authority. Aussitôt I
receive a violent kick in the kerseymeres. I
recognise the coup du maître— the master
kick. Yes; it was well him, the victor ot
Austerlitz and Marengo, the crowned of the
Pope, the Emperor. I raise myself; I salute;
I make the reverence; I say, 'Sire!' 'Ah, M.
Golopin,' cries the hero, ' I demand pardon of
'you. I took you for a caniche—a white poodle
dog.' I have those kerseymeres still,my friend!"

Golopin is a worthy little creature, but is
very irascible. He boasts of unnumbered
persons he has killed in single combat abroad,
and specially of a maître d'armes whom he
vanquished with the broadsword. He has
great faith in his flute, and generally carries
it about with him. At Casserole's restaurant
in the Haymarket, one evening, having a
violent dispute with Klitzer, the cornet-à-
pistonist, who had bantered him into a state
of frenzy, he positively struck that big
instrumentalist in the face, though he had to
jump at least a foot in the air to do so. He
dismissed him with these magniloquent
words, " Miserable! You have neither the
courage of a bug nor the integrity of a
lobster. Had I my instrument with me I
would chastise you." People have been
rather chary of bantering Golopin since then.
That bounteous, kindly, consistent mother
Nature of ours, whom we all abuse, and yet
should be so grateful to, scarcely ever fashions
a little deformed man but she implants in
him a most valorous stomach, a high disdain
and sense of injured merit, a noble pugnacity
and irascibility that makes it dangerous to
ridicule and insult him.