it. It was my husband that told me so; and he's one of the sworn booksellers." "So surely was it at the Petit-Bourbon," rejoined Gervaise, no less warmly, "that I'll just tell you what my lord cardinal's attorney made them a present of: twelve double quarts of hippocras, white claret, and vermilion; four-and-twenty cases of gilt double Lyons marchpane; four-and-twenty waxtorches of two pounds apiece; and six half-casks of Baune wine, white and claret, the best that could be found. I hope that's proof enough. I had it from my husband, who's officer at the Parloir-aux-Bourgeois, and who was making a comparison this morning between the Flemish ambassadors and those of Prester John and the Emperor of Trebizond, that came to Paris from Mesopotamia in the last king's time, and that had rings in their ears." "So true is it that they supped at the Hôtel-deVille," replied Oudarde, not a whit moved by all this display, "that never was there seen so fine a show of meat and sugar-plums." "I tell you that they were waited on by Le Sec, town-sergeant, at the Hôtel du Petit-Bourbon; and that's what has deceived you." "At the Hôtel-de-Ville, I tell you!" "At the Petit-Bourbon, my dear! for they'd illuminated the word 'Espérance' that's written over the great doorway with magical glasses." "At the Hôtel-de-Ville! at the Hôtel-de-Ville ! for Husson-le-Voir was playing the flute to them." "I tell you, no." "I tell you, yes." "I tell you, no." The good plump Oudarde was preparing to reply ; and the quarrel would perhaps have gone on to the pulling of caps, if Mahiette had not all at once exclaimed, "Look at those people there, gathered together at the end of the bridge. There's something among them that they 're all looking at." " I do indeed hear a tambourining," said Gervaise ; "I think it's little Smeralda, doing her mummeries with her goat. Make haste, Mahiette; double your pace, and pull your boy along. You're come here to see all the curiosities of Paris. Yesterday you saw the Flemings; to-day you must see the little gypsy." "The gypsy!" said Mahiette, turning sharply round, and forcibly grasping her son's arms. "God preserve me from her! She'd steal my child. - Come along, Eustache!" And she set off running along the quay towards the Grève, until she had left the bridge far enough behind her. The boy, too, whom she was dragging along, stumbled and fell upon his knees, and she herself was out of breath. Oudarde and Gervaise now came up with her. "That gypsy steal your child!" said Gervaise ; "that's an odd fancy of yours!" Mahiette shook her head thoughtfully. "It's curious enough," observed Oudarde, "that the Sachette has the same notion about the Egyptian women." "What's the Sachette?" inquired Mahiette. "Why," said Oudarde, "it's Sister Gudule." "And who's Sister Gudule?” returned Mahiette. "You must be very knowing, - with your Reims, -- not to know that!" answered Oudarde, looking wise. "It's the recluse of the Trou-aux-Rats." "What!" exclaimed Mahiette; ; "that poor woman to whom we're carrying this cake?" Oudarde nodded affirmatively. "Precisely," said she. "You'll see her directly, at her window-place on the Grève. She looks as you do upon those vagabonds of Egypt that go about tambourining and fortune-telling. Nobody knows what has given her this horror of zingari and Egyptians. But what makes you run away so, Mahiette, at the very sight of them?" "Oh," said Mahiette, taking in both hands the chubby head of her boy, "I wouldn't have that happen to me which happened to Paquette-la-Chantefleurie!" "Ha, now you 're going to tell us a story, my good Mahiette," said Gervaise, taking her arm. "I'm quite willing," answered Mahiette; "but you must be very knowing, - with your Paris, - not to know that. I must tell you, then, - but we need n't stand still to go through our story, - that Paquettela-Chantefleurie was a pretty girl of eighteen when I was one too, that is to say eighteen years ago; and that it's her own fault if she's not now, as I am, a good fat fresh-looking mother of six-and-thirty, with a husband and a boy. But alack! from the time that she was fourteen years old, it was too late. I must tell you, then, that she was the daughter of Guybertaut, a boat-minstrel at Reims, the same who had played before King Charles VII. at his coronation, when he went down our river Vesle from Sillery to Muison, and Madame la Pucelle was in the boat. The old father died while Paquette was quite a child, so that she had only her mother left, who was sister to Monsieur Matthieu Pradon, a masterbrazier and tinman at Paris, Rue Parin-Garlin, who died last year. You see that she was of some family. The mother was a good simple woman, unfortunately, and taught Paquette nothing but a little needle-work and toy-making, which did not hinder the little girl from growing very tall and remaining very poor. They lived both of them at Reims, by the river-side, Rue de Folle-Peine; mark that! for I believe that's what brought misfortune to Paquette. In '61, the year of the coronation of our King Louis XI., - whom God preserve! - Paquette was so gay and so pretty, that everywhere they called her nothing but La Chantefleurie. Poor girl! she'd pretty teeth, and she was fond of laughing to show them. Now a girl that 's fond of laughing is on the way to cry, fine teeth are the ruin of fine eyes. So she was La Chantefleurie. She and her mother got their bread hardly: they were fallen very low since the death of the musician; their needle-work brought them hardly above six deniers a week, which is not quite two liards à l'aigle. Where was the time when the father Guybertaut used to get twelve sols parisis at a single coronation, for a song? One winter (it was in that same year '61) when the two women had neither logs nor fagots, and it was very cold, giving such beautiful colors to La Chantefleurie that the men would call after her 'Paquette,' - that some of them called her a 'Paquerette,' - and that she was ruined Eustache, let me see you bite the cake, if you dare! - We saw directly that she was ruined, one Sunday that she came to church with a gold cross on her neck. At fifteen ! - only think of that! At first it was the young Viscount de Cormontreuil, who has his bell-tower three quarters of a league from Reims; then, Messire Henri de Traincourt, the king's master of the horse; then, going down lower, Chiart de Beaulion, sergeant-at-arms; then, lower still, Guery Aubergeon, king's carver; then Macé de Frépus, monsieur the dauphin's barber; then Thévenin le Moine, the king's first cook; then, still going on from one to another, from the younger to the older, and from more noble to less noble, she came to Guillaume Racine, viol-player, and to Thierry-de-Mer, lampmaker. Then poor Chantefleurie! - she was all things to all men; she was come to the last sou of her piece of gold. What think you, mesdamoiselles? At the coronation, in the same year '61, it was she that made the bed for the king of the ribalds! In the same year دو Mahiette sighed, and wiped away a tear that had started to her eyes. "Here's a story," said Gervaise, "that's not very uncommon; and I find nothing in all that about gypsies or children." "Patience!" resumed Mahiette. "As for a child, there's one coming for you. In '66, -it 'll be sixteen years ago this month, on Saint Paul's day, -Paquette was brought to bed of a little girl. Unfortunate creature! she was in great joy at it; she'd long been |