ws lengthen on the grass of the old
garden in the golden afternoon. Presently, from a private entrance,
some children and some older persons appeared. The theater was for
child actors only, and one of them--a floury baker's boy,--came to the
iron gate, and acted as gate-keeper. To him I paid the few copper
coins asked for admittance, and entered.

Others followed me, chiefly working people and serving-men and women,
but there were some of a class not often seen at these cheap,
open-air performances. One man I recognized--Lafarge, an actor of the
Comedie Francaise, and, I think, the poorest actor who ever played in
the House of Moliere. Something, I know not what, excited suspicion of
this man in my mind--I could but wonder what he was doing there. He
had a hang-dog countenance, and was almost as ugly as I.

Presently, whom should I see bustling about, and evidently the manager
of the enterprise, but Jacques Haret! I own I was astonished to find
him doing anything but eating and drinking and riding at somebody
else's expense--but there he was, actually at work, and that, too, in
a very intelligent manner. There was no doubt about his intelligence,
although he was known as a scamp of the first water. His intelligence
had not kept him from gambling away a fine patrimony in the Low
Countries, where his family had once been great.

He was the handsomest dog imaginable, in spite of all the cardinal
sins looking out of his eyes--and he retained certain outward and
visible signs of inward and spiritual graces which he had never had
since I knew him. I will say of him though, that he was not a coward,
nor did I ever hear him utter one word of railing against fate--but
what a rascal he was!

As soon as his eye fell upon me he came across the grass and greeted
me by clapping me on the back. He wore a shabby old laced coat, woolen
stockings, broken shoes, and a splendid velvet hat and feathers; this
last probably picked up at random--which some people call stealing.
Now, I have never known a specimen of rascal-gentleman like Jacques
Haret who could not always stand and sit at ease with all men. I,
Babache, an honest fellow, often feel abashed in the presence of the
great. I am thinking, if I am too friendly they will remember my
origin and think me impudent--and if I be not friendly enough, I fear
I am thought to forget whence I sprang. But Jacques Haret and men like
him are at their ease with kings and beggars alike. There is