icking up his ears.

"Berzelius Paragot--and he took the name of Nibbidard, which means 'no
luck'--so he loved to call himself Berzelius Nibbidard Paragot."

"Berzelius Nibbidard Paragot," mouthed my master joyously. "I would give
anything for a name like that!"

"It is yours if you like to take it," she said quite seriously. "No one
will want it any more."

"Little Asticot of my heart," said he, "what do you think of it?"

It struck me as a most aristocratically romantic appellation. I was used
to his aliases by this time. He had long ceased to call himself
"Pradel," and what was our surname for the moment I am now unable to
recollect.

"You look like 'Paragot,' Master," said I, and, in an inexplicable way,
he did--as I have before remarked. He called me a psychometrical genius
and enquired the name of the young lady.

"Amelie Duprat, Monsieur," she said. "But _pour le metier_--we must have
professional names for the cafes--Pere Paragot called me 'Blanquette de
Veau.'"

"Delicious!" cried he.

"So everyone calls me Blanquette," she explained gravely. There was a
silence. Paragot--he really assumed the name from this moment--refilled
his pipe. The belated peasants, having finished their wine, clattered
out of the cafe, and took off their hats as they passed us.

"Life is very hard, is it not, Messieurs?" remarked Blanquette. It
seemed to be her favourite philosophic proposition. She sighed. "If Pere
Paragot had only lived to play at the wedding tomorrow!"

"What then?"

"I should have had ten francs."

"Ah!" said my master.

"First I lose my louis, and now I lose my ten francs! ah! _Sainte Vierge
de Misericorde!_"

It was heart-rending. Sometimes they received more than the stipulated
fee at these village weddings. They passed the hat round. If the guests
were mellow with good wine, which makes folks generous, they often
earned double the amount. And they always had as much as they liked to
eat, and could take away scraps in a handkerchief.

"And good wholesome nourishment, Monsieur. Once it was half a goose."

And now there was nothing, nothing. Blanquette did not believe in the
_bon Dieu_ any longer. She buried her face in her arms and wept. Paragot
smoked helplessly for a few moments. I, unused to women's tears, felt
the desolation of the race of Blanquette de Veau overspread me. But that
I considered it to be beneath my dignity as a man, I should have wept
too.

Suddenly Paragot brought his f