“And you say he is old?”

“Yes, fifty or sixty.”

“And ugly?”

“Just fancy, little viper’s eyes, looking as if they had been bored with a gimlet, in a face as pale as death—­so pale, that the lips are white.  That’s for his appearance.  As for his character, the good old man’s so polite!—­he pulls off his hat so often, and makes you such low bows, that it is quite embarrassing.”

“But, to come back to the point,” resumed Rose-Pompon, “what can he do all alone in those two rooms?  If Cephyse should take the closet, on Philemon’s return, we may amuse ourselves by finding out something about it.  How much do they want for the little room?”

“Why, it is in such bad condition, that I think the landlord would let it go for fifty or fifty-five francs a-year, for there is no room for a stove, and the only light comes through a small pane in the roof.”

“Poor Cephyse!” said Rose, sighing, and shaking her head sorrowfully.  “After having amused herself so well, and flung away so much money with Jacques Rennepont, to live in such a place, and support herself by hard work!  She must have courage!”

“Why, indeed, there is a great difference between that closet and the coach-and-four in which Cephyse came to fetch you the other day, with all the fine masks, that looked so gay—­particularly the fat man in the silver paper helmet, with the plume and the top boots.  What a jolly fellow!”

“Yes, Ninny Moulin.  There is no one like him to dance the forbidden fruit.  You should see him with Cephyse, the Bacchanal Queen.  Poor laughing, noisy thing!—­the only noise she makes now is crying.”

“Oh! these young people—­these young people!” said the greengrocer.

“Easy, Mother Arsene; you were young once.”

“I hardly know.  I have always thought myself much the same as I am now.”

“And your lovers, Mother Arsene?”

“Lovers!  Oh, yes!  I was too ugly for that—­and too well taken care of.”

“Your mother looked after you, then?”

“No, my girl; but I was harnessed.”

“Harnessed!” cried Rose-Pompon, in amazement, interrupting the dealer.

“Yes,—­harnessed to a water-cart, along with my brother.  So, you see, when we had drawn like a pair of horses for eight or ten hours a day, I had no heart to think of nonsense.”

“Poor Mother Arsene, what a hard life,” said Rose-Pompon with interest.

“In the winter, when it froze, it was hard enough.  I and my brother were obliged to be rough-shod, for fear of slipping.”

“What a trade for a woman!  It breaks one’s heart.  And they forbid people to harness dogs!” added Rose-Pompon, sententiously.[21]

“Why, ’tis true,” resumed Mother Arsene.  “Animals are sometimes better off than people.  But what would you have?  One must live, you know.  As you make your bed, you must lie.  It was hard enough, and I got a disease of the lungs by it—­which was not my fault.  The strap, with which I was harnessed, pressed so hard against my chest, that I could scarcely breathe:  so I left the trade, and took to a shop, which is just to tell you, that if I had had a pretty face and opportunity, I might have done like so many other young people, who begin with laughter and finish—­”