id the gypsy.

There was in the intonation of that "Oh! no," uttered after that "Oh!
yes," an ineffable something which wounded Fleur-de-Lys.

"You left me in your stead, my beauty," pursued the captain, whose
tongue was unloosed when speaking to a girl out of the street, "a
crabbed knave, one-eyed and hunchbacked, the bishop's bellringer,
I believe. I have been told that by birth he is the bastard of
an archdeacon and a devil. He has a pleasant name: he is called
_Quatre-Temps_ (Ember Days), _Paques-Fleuries_ (Palm Sunday), Mardi-Gras
(Shrove Tuesday), I know not what! The name of some festival when the
bells are pealed! So he took the liberty of carrying you off, as though
you were made for beadles! 'Tis too much. What the devil did that
screech-owl want with you? Hey, tell me!"

"I do not know," she replied.

"The inconceivable impudence! A bellringer carrying off a wench, like a
vicomte! a lout poaching on the game of gentlemen! that is a rare piece
of assurance. However, he paid dearly for it. Master Pierrat Torterue is
the harshest groom that ever curried a knave; and I can tell you, if
it will be agreeable to you, that your bellringer's hide got a thorough
dressing at his hands."

"Poor man!" said the gypsy, in whom these words revived the memory of
the pillory.

The captain burst out laughing.

"Corne-de-boeuf! here's pity as well placed as a feather in a pig's
tail! May I have as big a belly as a pope, if--"

He stopped short. "Pardon me, ladies; I believe that I was on the point
of saying something foolish."

"Fie, sir" said la Gaillefontaine.

"He talks to that creature in her own tongue!" added Fleur-de-Lys, in
a low tone, her irritation increasing every moment. This irritation was
not diminished when she beheld the captain, enchanted with the gypsy,
and, most of all, with himself, execute a pirouette on his heel,
repeating with coarse, naive, and soldierly gallantry,--

"A handsome wench, upon my soul!"

"Rather savagely dressed," said Diane de Christeuil, laughing to show
her fine teeth.

This remark was a flash of light to the others. Not being able to impugn
her beauty, they attacked her costume.

"That is true," said la Montmichel; "what makes you run about the
streets thus, without guimpe or ruff?"

"That petticoat is so short that it makes one tremble," added la
Gaillefontaine.

"My dear," continued Fleur-de-Lys, with decided sharpness, "You will get
yourself taken up by the sump