graceful act. But enough. Before you go, tell me whom you were
conversing with just now."

"A maiden," said Jacques.

"No! a perfect fairy."

"See the effect of seclusion! You are getting into such a state of
disgust with your books, that you'll end by espousing Mother Bobbery,
you unfortunate victim of political ideas."

"_I_ disgusted--_I_ tired of my books--_I_ tired, when I have this
glorious song to sing!"

And at the top of his voice Sir Asinus chanted:

"Aurum de Arabia,
Thus et myrrhum de Saba,
Tulit in ecclesia
Virtus asinaria!"

"Excellent dog Latin," said Jacques; "and literally translated it
signifies:

'Gold from the Governor,
Tobacco from the South Side,
Asinarian strategy
Has brought into his chambers.'

That is to say, asinarian strategy has made the attempt."

But Sir Asinus, disregarding these strictures, began to sing the
chorus:

"Hez, Sire Asne, car chantez,
Belle bouche rechignez;
Vous aurez du foin assez,
Et de l'avoine a plantez."

"Good," said Jacques; "that signifies:

Strike up, Sir Asinus,
With your braying mouth;
Never fear for hay,
The crop of oats is ample.'

But on reflection the translation is bad--'belle bouche is not
'braying mouth;' which reminds me that I must take my departure."

"Where are you going, unhappy profaner of ecclesiastical psalmody?"

"To see Belle-bouche," sighed Jacques.

Sir Asinus tore his hair.

"Then I'll go too," he cried.

"I've the last horse at the Raleigh," observed Jacques with
melancholy pleasure. "Good morning, my dear friend. Take care of
yourself."

And leaving Sir Asinus with a polite bow, Jacques went down the
staircase. As for Sir Asinus, in the excess of his rage he sat down
and composed a whole canto of an epic--which luckily has not descended
to our day. The rats preserved humanity.

CHAPTER IX.

THE LUCK OF JACQUES.

Belle-bouche was busily at work upon a piece of embroidery when
Jacques entered; and this embroidery was designed for a fire-screen.
It represented a parroquet intensely crimson, on a background
uniformly emerald; and the eyes of the melancholy lover dwelt
wistfully upon the snowy hands selecting the different colors from a
tortoise-shell work-box filled with spools of silk.

Belle-bouche greeted the entrance of her admirer with a frank smile,
and held out her hand, which poor Jacques pressed to his lips wit