the shop, one Mother Arsene, an old woman of a mild, sickly countenance,
clad in a brown stuff dress, with a red bandanna round her head, was
mounted on the top step of the stairs which led down to her door, and
was employed in setting out her goods--that is, on one side of her
door she placed a tin milk-can, and on the other some bunches of stale
vegetables, flanked with yellowed cabbages. At the bottom of the steps,
in the shadowy depths of the cellar, one could see the light of the
burning charcoal in a little stove. This shop situated at the side of
the passage, served as a porter's lodge, and the old woman acted as
portress. On a sudden, a pretty little creature, coming from the house,
entered lightly and merrily the shop. This young girl was Rose-Pompon,
the intimate friend of the Bacchanal Queen.--Rose-Pompon, a widow for
the moment, whose bacchanalian cicisbeo was Ninny Moulin, the orthodox
scapegrace, who, on occasion, after drinking his fill, could transform
himself into Jacques Dumoulin, the religious writer, and pass gayly from
dishevelled dances to ultramontane polemics, from Storm-blown Tulips to
Catholic pamphlets.

Rose-Pompon had just quitted her bed, as appeared by the negligence of
her strange morning costume; no doubt, for want of any other head-dress,
on her beautiful light hair, smooth and well-combed, was stuck jauntily
a foraging-cap, borrowed from her masquerading costume. Nothing could
be more sprightly than that face, seventeen years old, rosy, fresh,
dimpled, and brilliantly lighted up by a pair of gay, sparkling blue
eyes. Rose Pompon was so closely enveloped from the neck to the feet
in a red and green plaid cloak, rather faded, that one could guess the
cause of her modest embarrassment. Her naked feet, so white that one
could not tell if she wore stockings or not, were slipped into little
morocco shoes, with plated buckles. It was easy to perceive that her
cloak concealed some article which she held in her hand.

"Good-day, Rose-Pompon," said Mother Arsene with a kindly air; "you are
early this morning. Had you no dance last night?"

"Don't talk of it, Mother Arsene; I had no heart to dance. Poor
Cephyse--the Bacchanal Queen--has done nothing but cry all night. She
cannot console herself, that her lover should be in prison."

"Now, look here, my girl," said the old woman, "I must speak to you
about your friend Cephyse. You won't be angry?"

"Am I ever angry?" said Rose-Pompon, shrugg