adore,--it is
Colibri.[1] I did not change, because I never will call those birds by
any other name than Cretu and Ramonette; if I did, I should seem to make
a sacrifice, that I forgot my good, adopted parents,--don't you think
so, M. Rodolph?"

[1] Colibri is a celebrated chanson of Beranger, the especial
poet of grisettes.--_English Translator_.

"You are right a thousand times over. And Germain did not turn these
names into a jest, eh?"

"On the contrary, the first time he heard them he thought them droll,
like every one else, and that was natural enough. But when I explained
to him my reasons, as I had many times explained them to M. Cabrion,
tears started to his eyes. From that time I said to myself, M. Germain
is very kind-hearted, and there is nothing to be said against him, but
his weeping so. And so, you see, M. Rodolph, my reproaching him with his
sadness has made me unhappy now. Then I could not understand why any one
was melancholy, but now I understand it but too well. But now my packet
is completed, and my work is ready for delivery. Will you hand me my
shawl, neighbour? It is not cold enough to take a cloak, is it?"

"We shall go and return in a coach."

"True; we shall go and return very quickly, and that will be so much
gained."

"But, now I think of it, what are you to do? Your work will suffer from
your visits to the prison."

"Oh, no, no; I have made my calculations. In the first place, I have my
Sundays to myself, so I shall go and see Louise and Germain on those
days; that will serve me for a walk and a change. Then, in the week, I
shall go again to the prison once or twice. Each time will occupy me
three good hours, won't it? Well, to manage this comfortably, I shall
work an hour more every day, and go to bed at twelve o'clock instead of
eleven o'clock; that will be a clear gain of seven or eight hours a
week, which I can employ in going to see Louise and Germain. You see I
am richer than I appear," added Rigolette, with a smile.

"And you have no fear that you will be overfatigued?"

"Bah! Not at all; I shall manage it. And, besides, it can't last for
ever."

"Here is your shawl, neighbour."

"Fasten it; and mind you don't prick me."

"Ah, the pin is bent."

"Well, then, clumsy, take another then,--from the pincushion. Ah, I
forgot! Will you do me a great favour, neighbour?"

"Command me, neighbour."

"Mend me a good pen, with a broad nib, so that when I return I may writ