rtily.

"And what," resumed she, "will be the name of your journal of
sacristans?"

"It will be called 'Neighborly Love.'"

"Come! that is a very pretty name."

"Wait a little! there is a second title."

"Let us hear it."

"'Neighborly Love; or, the Exterminator of the Incredulous, the
Indifferent, the Lukewarm, and Others,' with this motto from the great
Bossuet: 'Those who are not for us are against us.'"

"That is what Philemon says in the battles at the Chaumiere, when he
shakes his cane."

"Which proves, that the genius of the Eagle of Meaux is universal. I
only reproach him for having been jealous of Moliere."

"Bah! actor's jealousy," said Rose-Pompon.

"Naughty girl!" cried Ninny Moulin, threatening her with his finger.

"But if you are going to exterminate Madame de la Sainte-Colombo, who is
somewhat lukewarm--how about your marriage?"

"My journal will advance it, on the contrary. Only think! editor-In
chief is a superb position; the sacristans will praise, and push, and
support, and bless me; I shall get La-Sainte-Colombe--and then, what a
life I'll lead!"

At this moment, a postman entered the shop, and delivered a letter to
the greengrocer, saying: "For M. Charlemagne, post-paid!"

"My!" said Rose-Pompon; "it is for the little mysterious old man, who
has such extraordinary ways. Does it come from far?"

"I believe you; it comes from Italy, from Rome," said Ninny Moulin,
looking in his turn at the letter, which the greengrocer held in her
hand. "Who is the astonishing little old man of whom you speak?"

"Just imagine to yourself, my great apostle," said Rose-Pompon, "a
little old man, who has two rooms at the bottom of that court. He never
sleeps there, but comes from time to time, and shuts himself up for
hours, without ever allowing any one to enter his lodging, and without
any one knowing what he does there."

"He is a conspirator," said Ninny Moulin, laughing, "or else a comer."

"Poor dear man," said Mother Arsene, "what has he done with his false
money? He pays me always in sous for the bit of bread and the radish I
furnish him for his breakfast."

"And what is the name of this mysterious chap?" asked Dumoulin.

"M. Charlemagne," said the greengrocer. "But look, surely one speaks of
the devil, one is sure to see his horns."

"Where's the horns?"

"There, by the side of the house--that little old man, who walks with
his neck awry, and his umbrella under his arm."

"M. Rodin