, with one of Paragot's "inspirations"; for she was very
pretty.

"_Voila_," she laughed putting the gold into my hand. "_Tu me fais la
cour, maintenant._ Come and see me at the Villa Marcelle and I will give
you a photograph gratis."

But Paragot when I repeated the conversation to him called the lady
shocking names, and forbade me to go within a mile of the Villa
Marcelle. So I did not get the photograph.

The next best thing I loved was to see Blanquette's eyes glitter when I
returned to the platform and poured silver and copper into her lap. She
uttered strange little exclamations under her breath, and her fingers
played caressingly with the coins.

"We gain more here in a day than Pere Paragot did in a week. It is
wonderful. _N'est-ce pas, Maitre?_" she said one morning.

Paragot tuned his violin and looked down on her.

"Money pleases you, Blanquette?"

"Of course."

She counted the takings sou by sou.

"Yet you did not want to accept your just share."

"What you make me take is not just, Master," she said, simply.

Much as she loved money, her sense of justice rebelled against Paragot's
division of the takings--a third for Laripet, a third for Blanquette and
a third for himself which he generously shared with me. Pere Paragot
used to sweep into his pockets every sou and Blanquette had to subsist
on whatever he chose to allow for joint expenses. Her new position of
independence was a subject for much inward pride, mingled however with a
consciousness of her own unworthiness. Monsieur Laripet, yes; she would
grant that he was entitled to the same as the Master; but herself--no.
Was not the Master the great artist, and she but the clumsy strummer?
Was he not also a man, with more requirements than she--tobacco,
absinthe, brandy and the like?

"A third is too much," she added.

"If you argue," said he, "I will divide it in halves for Laripet and
yourself, and I won't touch a penny."

"That would be idiotic," said Blanquette.

"It would be in keeping with life generally," he answered. "In a comic
opera one thing is not more idiotic than another. Yes, Monsieur Laripet,
we will give them _Funiculi, Funicula_. I once drove in coffin nails to
that tune in Verona. Now we will set people eating to it in
Aix-les-Bains--we, Monsieur Laripet, you and I, who ought to be the
petted minions of great capitals! It is a comic opera."

"One has to get bread or one would starve," said Blanquette pursuing her
argum