lent her.
After her scrutiny, she said, in a tone of coarse satisfaction, "It's
really a pleasure--so it is--to lend one's good clothes to you; you are
as clean as a kitten, or else I would never have trusted you with that
shawl. Such a beauty as that orange one is, I would never have trusted
it to such gals as Tourneuse and Boulotte; but I have taken every care
_on_ you ever since you came here six weeks ago; and, if the truth must
be said, there is not a tidier nor more nicer girl than you in all the
Cite; that there ain't; though you be al'ays so sad like, and too
particular."

The Goualeuse sighed, turned her head, and said nothing.

"Why, mother," said Rodolph to the old hag, "you have got some holy
boxwood, I see, over your cuckoo," and he pointed with his finger to the
consecrated bough behind the old clock.

"Why, you heathen, would you have us live like dogs?" replied the
ogress. Then addressing Fleur-de-Marie, she added, "Come, now,
Goualeuse, tip us one of your pretty little ditties" (_goualantes_).

"Supper, supper first, Mother Ponisse," said the Chourineur.

"Well, my lad of wax, what can I do for you?" said the ogress to
Rodolph, whose good-will she was desirous to conciliate, and whose
support she might, perchance, require.

"Ask the Chourineur; he orders, I pay."

"Well, then," said the ogress, turning to the bandit, "what will you
have for supper, you 'bad lot?'"

"Two quarts of the best wine, at twelve sous, three crusts of wheaten
bread, and a harlequin,"[5] said the Chourineur, after considering for a
few moments what he should order.

[5] A "harlequin" is a collection of odds and ends of fish,
flesh, and fowl, after they come from table, which the Parisian,
providing for the class to which the Chourineur belongs, finds a
profitable and popular composition.

"Ah! you are a dainty dog, I know, and as fond as ever of them
harlequins."

"Well, now, Goualeuse," said the Chourineur, "are you hungry?"

"No, Chourineur."

"Would you like anything better than a harlequin, my lass?" said
Rodolph.

"No, I thank you; I have no appetite."

"Come, now," said the Chourineur, with a brutal grin, "look my master in
the face like a jolly wench. You have no objection, I suppose?"

The poor girl blushed, and did not look at Rodolph. A few moments
afterwards, and the ogress herself placed on the table a pitcher of
wine, bread, and a harlequin, of which we will not attempt to give an
idea t