inually, sings the song
of Musette at the, top of her voice (oh! that song of Musette, how tired
one gets of it!); quarrels with the charcoal dealer, tells the janitor
all her domestic details, confides all the secrets of her bedroom to the
neighbor's servant, discusses her husband with the tradespeople and has
her head so stuffed with stupid stories, with idiotic superstitions, with
extraordinary ideas and monstrous prejudices, that I--for what I
have said applies more particularly to myself--shed tears of
discouragement every time I talk to her."

He stopped, as he was rather out of breath and very much moved, and I
looked at him, for I felt pity for this poor, artless devil, and I was
just going to give him some sort of answer, when the boat stopped. We
were at Saint-Cloud.

The little woman who had so taken my fancy rose from her seat in order to
land. She passed close to me, and gave me a sidelong glance and a furtive
smile, one of those smiles that drive you wild. Then she jumped on the
landing-stage. I sprang forward to follow her, but my neighbor laid hold
of my arm. I shook myself loose, however, whereupon he seized the skirt
of my coat and pulled me back, exclaiming: "You shall not go! you shall
not go!" in such a loud voice that everybody turned round and laughed,
and I remained standing motionless and furious, but without venturing to
face scandal and ridicule, and the steamboat started.

The little woman on the landing-stage looked at me as I went off with an
air of disappointment, while my persecutor rubbed his hands and whispered
to me:

"You must acknowledge that I have done you a great service."

A QUEER NIGHT IN PARIS

Mattre Saval, notary at Vernon, was passionately fond of music. Although
still young he was already bald; he was always carefully shaven, was
somewhat corpulent as was suitable, and wore a gold pince-nez instead of
spectacles. He was active, gallant and cheerful and was considered quite
an artist in Vernon. He played the piano and the violin, and gave
musicals where the new operas were interpreted.

He had even what is called a bit of a voice; nothing but a bit, very
little bit of a voice; but he managed it with so much taste that cries of
"Bravo!" "Exquisite!" "Surprising!" "Adorable!" issued from every throat
as soon as he had murmured the last note.

He subscribed to a music publishing house in Paris, and they sent him the
latest music, and from time to time he sent inv