the auction pavilion; among the piles of oyster baskets, and betwixt the buckets where the refuse was thrown.  With a pinky fairness of skin, he was like a young barbel frisking and gliding about in deep water.  He was as fond of running, streaming water as any young fry.  He was ever dabbling in the pools in the alleys.  He wetted himself with the drippings from the tables, and when no one was looking often slyly turned on the taps, rejoicing in the bursting gush of water.  But it was especially beside the fountains near the cellar steps that his mother went to seek him in the evening, and she would bring him thence with his hands quite blue, and his shoes, and even his pockets, full of water.

At seven years old Muche was as pretty as an angel, and as coarse in his manners as any carter.  He had curly chestnut hair, beautiful eyes, and an innocent-looking mouth which gave vent to language that even a gendarme would have hesitated to use.  Brought up amidst all the ribaldry and profanity of the markets, he had the whole vocabulary of the place on the tip of his tongue.  With his hands on his hips he often mimicked Grandmother Mehudin in her anger, and at these times the coarsest and vilest expressions would stream from his lips in a voice of crystalline purity that might have belonged to some little chorister chanting the Ave Maria.  He would even try to assume a hoarse roughness of tone, seek to degrade and taint that exquisite freshness of childhood which made him resemble a bambino on the Madonna’s knees.  The fish-wives laughed at him till they cried; and he, encouraged, could scarcely say a couple of words without rapping out an oath.  But in spite of all this he still remained charming, understanding nothing of the dirt amidst which he lived, kept in vigorous health by the fresh breezes and sharp odours of the fish market, and reciting his vocabulary of coarse indecencies with as pure a face as though he were saying his prayers.

The winter was approaching, and Muche seemed very sensitive to the cold.  As soon as the chilly weather set in he manifested a strong predilection for the inspector’s office.  This was situated in the left-hand corner of the pavilion, on the side of the Rue Rambuteau.  The furniture consisted of a table, a stack of drawers, an easy-chair, two other chairs, and a stove.  It was this stove which attracted Muche.  Florent quite worshipped children, and when he saw the little fellow, with his dripping legs, gazing wistfully through the window, he made him come inside.  His first conversation with the lad caused him profound amazement.  Muche sat down in front of the stove, and in his quiet voice exclaimed:  “I’ll just toast my toes, do you see?  It’s d——­d cold this morning.”  Then he broke into a rippling laugh, and added:  “Aunt Claire looks awfully blue this morning.  Is it true, sir, that you are sweet on her?”