y. "She is the Goddess of Mirth. I will make two holes in my coat."

He had not gone twenty paces before he felt himself tapped on the
shoulder. It was Mademoiselle Musette.

"My dear Monsieur Marcel," said she, "are you a true knight?"

"I am. 'Rubens and my lady,' that is my motto."

"Well then, hearken to my woes and pity take, most noble sir," returned
Musette, who was slightly tinged with literature, although she murdered
grammar in fine style, "the landlord has taken away the key of my room
and it is eleven o'clock at night. Do you understand?"

"I understand," said Marcel, offering Musette his arm. He took her to
his studio on the Quai aux Fleurs.

Musette was hardly able to keep awake, but she still had strength
enough to say to Marcel, taking him by the hand, "You remember what you
have promised?"

"Oh Musette! charming creature!" said the artist in a somewhat moved
tone, "you are here beneath a hospitable roof, sleep in peace. Good
night, I am off."

"Why so?" said Musette, her eyes half closed. "I am not afraid, I can
assure you. In the first place, there are two rooms. I will sleep on
your sofa."

"My sofa is too hard to sleep on, it is stuffed with carded pebbles. I
will give you hospitality here, and ask it for myself from a friend who
lives on the same landing. It will be more prudent," said he. "I usually
keep my word, but I am twenty-two and you are eighteen, Musette,--and I
am off. Good night."

The next morning at eight o'clock Marcel entered her room with a pot of
flowers that he had gone and bought in the market. He found Musette, who
had thrown herself fully dressed on the bed, and was still sleeping. At
the noise made by him she woke, and held out her hand.

"What a good fellow," said she.

"Good fellow," repeated Marcel, "is not that a term of ridicule?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Musette, "why should you say that to me? It is not nice.
Instead of saying spiteful things offer me that pretty pot of flowers."

"It is, indeed, for you that I have brought them up," said Marcel. "Take
it, and in return for my hospitality sing me one of your songs, the echo
of my garret may perhaps retain something of your voice, and I shall
still hear you after you have departed."

"Oh! so you want to show me the door?" said Musette. "Listen, Marcel, I
do not beat about the bush to say what my thoughts are. You like me and
I like you. It is not love, but it is perhaps its seed. Well, I am not
going away, I am