rs, the girls in fresh cottonade or calamanco.

All at once cries of "'Polyte! 'Polyte!" were heard, and a nimble young
man with a jester-like face hopped around the corner of the church,
trundling a barrel. Behind 'Polyte came two rotund little men perspiring
freely, and laden down with various articles,--a bird-cage with two
yellow birds, a hat-trunk, an inlaid card box, a roll of scarlet cloth,
and I know not what else. They deposited these on the grass beside the
barrel, which 'Polyte had set on end and proceeded to mount, encouraged
by the shouts of his friends, who pressed around the barrel.

"It's an auction," I said.

But Nick did not hear me. I followed his glance to the far side of the
circle, and my eye was caught by a red ribbon, a blush that matched it.
A glance shot from underneath long lashes,--but not for me. Beside the
girl, and palpably uneasy, stood the young man who had been called
Gaspard.

"Ah," said I, "your angel of the tumbrel."

But Nick had pulled off his hat and was sweeping her a bow. The girl
looked down, smoothing her ribbon, Gaspard took a step forward, and other
young women near us tittered with delight. The voice of Hippolyte
rolling his r's called out in a French dialect:--

"M'ssieurs et Mesdames, ce sont des effets d'un pauvre officier qui est
mort. Who will buy?" He opened the hat-trunk, produced an antiquated
beaver with a gold cord, and surveyed it with a covetousness that was
admirably feigned. For 'Polyte was an actor. "M'ssieurs, to own such a
hat were a patent of nobility. Am I bid twenty livres?"

There was a loud laughter, and he was bid four.

"Gaspard," cried the auctioneer, addressing the young man of the tumbrel,
"Suzanne would no longer hesitate if she saw you in such a hat. And with
the trunk, too. Ah, mon Dieu, can you afford to miss it?"

The crowd howled, Suzanne simpered, and Gaspard turned as pink as clover.
But he was not to be bullied. The hat was sold to an elderly person, the
red cloth likewise; a pot of grease went to a housewife, and there was a
veritable scramble for the box of playing cards; and at last Hippolyte
held up the wooden cage with the fluttering yellow birds.

"Ha!" he cried, his eyes on Gaspard once more, "a gentle present--a
present to make a heart relent. And Monsieur Leon, perchance you will
make a bid, although they are not gamecocks."

Instantly, from somewhere under the barrel, a cock crew. Even the yellow
birds looked surpris