the
top of his voice:

"How I regret
My dimpled arms,
My nimble legs,
And vanished charms."

And then he watched a white pocket-handkerchief, which somebody was
waving, as it disappeared in the distance.

III

They slept the peaceful sleep of a quiet conscience, until they got to
Rouen, and when they returned to the house, refreshed and rested, Madame
Tellier could not help saying:

"It was all very well, but I was longing to get home."

They hurried over their supper, and then, when they had put on their
usual evening costume, waited for their regular customers, and the
little colored lamp outside the door told the passers-by that Madame
Tellier had returned, and in a moment the news spread, nobody knew how
or through whom.

Monsieur Philippe, the banker's son, even carried his friendliness so
far as to send a special messenger to Monsieur Tournevau, who was in the
bosom of his family.

The fish curer had several cousins to dinner every Sunday, and they were
having coffee, when a man came in with a letter in his hand. Monsieur
Tournevau was much excited; he opened the envelope and grew pale; it
contained only these words in pencil:

"The cargo of cod has been found; the ship has come into port; good
business for you. Come immediately."

He felt in his pockets, gave the messenger two sons, and suddenly
blushing to his ears, he said: "I must go out." He handed his wife the
laconic and mysterious note, rang the bell, and when the servant came
in, he asked her to bring him has hat and overcoat immediately. As soon
as he was in the street, he began to hurry, and the way seemed to him to
be twice as long as usual, in consequence of his impatience.

Madame Tellier's establishment had put on quite a holiday look. On the
ground floor, a number of sailors were making a deafening noise, and
Louise and Flora drank with one and the other, and were being called for
in every direction at once.

The upstairs room was full by nine o'clock. Monsieur Vasse, the Judge of
the Tribunal of Commerce, Madame Tellier's regular but Platonic wooer,
was talking to her in a corner in a low voice, and they were both
smiling, as if they were about to come to an understanding.

Monsieur Poulin, the ex-mayor, was talking to Rosa, and she was running
her hands through the old gentleman's white whiskers.

Tall Fernande was on the sofa, her feet on the coat of Monsieur
Pinipesse, the tax co