Albert, CÉlestin, and Tobie walked toward the messengers, while Sans-Cravate went forward to meet Albert, who employed him regularly and always paid him handsomely; so that the young Auvergnat felt a strong liking for the young man, whose free and easy manners and fascinating air pleased him mightily.

"There's a young man who knows what's what, who amuses himself and enjoys life!" he would exclaim. "CrÉdiÉ! if I had his figure and his money, that's the kind of a life I'd like to lead! Three or four mistresses at once! that must be rather pleasant and amusing! a fellow would have no time to be bored."

So it was that Sans-Cravate listened with a smile on his lips and with interest and attention to what Albert said after leading him aside:

"Take this letter and carry it to Madame Baldimer, Rue Neuve-Vivienne; the address is on the envelope. I think that she is not at home; but if by any chance she is, you will ask for an answer; if not, go there again, about eight o'clock, to get the answer; and bring it to me at the Maison-DorÉe restaurant, where I shall be at that time."

"Very good, monsieur. By the way, can I go up to the lady's apartment?"

"Yes, yes. You need take no precautions; there's no father, or husband, or aunt. And, Sans-Cravate, go to my house also, on Rue Caumartin, and ask the concierge if there are any letters for me; if there are, he'll give them to you, for he knows you; and you will bring them to me at the same place."

"Very good, monsieur; I understand."

Albert placed a five-franc piece in Sans-Cravate's hand, and left him.

Meanwhile, CÉlestin de Valnoir had taken Jean Ficelle, who was his favorite messenger, aside and handed him a letter, saying in a very low tone, after looking about to make sure that nobody could hear:

"Carry this note to Madame Baldimer—the lady to whose house I have sent you several times."

"Yes, monsieur, I know; I will go upstairs, as usual, and ask for Mamzelle Rosa, the lady's-maid, saying that I come from you."

"Exactly. And if Madame Baldimer is not at home, Rosa will tell you where you can find her; go there, and bring me the lady's answer at the Maison-DorÉe restaurant, where I shall dine. I will speak to the waiter, and he will let me know when you arrive."

"Very good, monsieur."

"By the way, it is possible that the gentleman who has just employed your comrade Sans-Cravate may be sending him also to Madame Baldimer's. As he must not know that I am sending you there, be prudent; let Sans-Cravate go first, and don't go in until he has come out."

"Never fear; I didn't get the sobriquet of Ficelle for nothing. He shall not know where I am going."

"Very well."

CÉlestin turned his back on the messenger, and joined Albert, who had returned to the boulevard.

Tobie Pigeonnier, meanwhile, had led Paul under a porte cochÈre, and there, after making sure that he was so far away from his two friends that they could not hear him, he said to the messenger:

"My boy, are you clever, faithful, and intelligent?"

Paul gazed in surprise at the little fellow who asked him the question with an air of mystery, as if he were about to admit him to the secret of a conspiracy.

"As to being faithful, monsieur," he replied, "it is my duty; I should be doubly guilty in my calling, if I betrayed the confidence of those who are good enough to employ me. At all events, monsieur, I am well known in the quarter, and you can inquire about me. As to my cleverness and intelligence, I have, as a general rule, had no difficulty in carrying out my instructions."

"Good, very good. I see that you are not too dull; you are the man for me, for I detest dull-witted people. Listen to me with the closest attention; stay—let us go a little farther; I have reasons for not wanting those gentlemen to hear what I have to say to you. There—let us stop in this corner. You will go—— By the way, what is your name?"

"Paul, monsieur."

"Paul; very good. You will go to the Temple, Paul, to the Temple Market—you know—where they sell clothing and linen for both sexes, and footwear too."

"I know the place, monsieur."

"You will go into the market, near the rotunda, where the stalls are,—they are called ayons,—to the part occupied by the milliners."

"Does monsieur mean the dealers in old hats?"

"Old hats!—why, they sell new ones too, and wreaths of flowers, almost new, and ladies' caps—in fact, all the pretty gewgaws that women always dote on. You will ask for Madame Abraham—she is well known—she is one of the largest dealers in the place."

"Madame Abraham; very well, monsieur."

"You will hand her this letter. Do you know how to read?"

Paul could not restrain a faint smile as he replied:

"Oh! yes, monsieur; very well."

"So much the better; I am very glad, because, in that case, you won't make any blunder."

But as he was not fully convinced that the messenger had told him the truth, Monsieur Tobie held up the letter he was about to give him, and said:

"What does that say?"

"To Madame Agar Abraham, wholesale milliner, MarchÉ du Temple."

"That's right, that's quite right; you read perfectly. You will give this letter, then, to Madame Abraham, and she will hand you some money for me; I have funds invested in her business. You will take the money, and—and——"

At that point, Tobie, seeing that a gentleman and lady were passing, raised his voice almost to a shout, and threw his head back and his chest forward:

"You will bring it to me at the Maison-DorÉe, where I dine to-night. I dine at the Maison-DorÉe; it is my favorite restaurant. You will ask the waiter for Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier. I am very well known at the Maison-DorÉe."

"I understand, monsieur."

The people who were passing being out of earshot, the stout youth continued in an undertone:

"One moment, Paul; that is not all. If by any chance—for we must provide for everything—if Madame Abraham should not give you any money for me—merchants are sometimes a little short—if, I say, Madame Abraham should give you nothing for me, then, and only then, you will go to the house where I live, on Rue de la Ferme-des-Mathurins—the address is on this other letter, and you know how to read. You will go there and give this letter to my concierge, Madame Pluchonneau,—the name is on the envelope,—and tell her you will wait for an answer. You may be obliged to wait some time, for I have told my concierge to do an errand for me. But you will wait in her lodge, she has a very fine lodge. Then my concierge, when she returns, will hand you some money, which you will bring to the Maison-DorÉe."

"Very good, monsieur."

"You are sure that you understand, messenger? If you receive money from Madame Abraham, who will doubtless hand you with it a memorandum of the amount, then it will not be necessary to go to my house, and you will bring back the letter for Madame Pluchonneau. But if you get nothing at the Temple, then go to Rue de la Ferme-des-Mathurins."

"I understand perfectly, monsieur."

"Off with you, young Paul! You can send word to me by the waiter; don't give me my answer before those other gentlemen. Secrecy, above all things!"

"Very good, monsieur."

"Go! I will give you a handsome pourboire."

And Tobie Pigeonnier returned to the boulevard and joined his friends, who shouted to him when he came in sight:

"Come on! What a long while it takes you to send a message to your charmers!"

"Here I am, messieurs. Oh! a man has to show some consideration. Let us be fickle, if you will, but we must not forget to be gallant; that is my nature."

While the young men walked away, the messengers came together again. Sans-Cravate held up the five-franc piece he had received, crying:

"Paid in advance! a cart-wheel! what do you think of that! There's a generous young man for you! I would fight for him."

"But you probably have got to go a long way for him," said Jean Ficelle, with affected indifference.

"Oh, no! nothing at all. First to Rue Neuve-Vivienne—only two steps; then to his house on Rue Caumartin, and from there to the Maison-DorÉe. It's all right in the quarter."

Jean Ficelle's eyes twinkled when he learned that Sans-Cravate was going to Rue Neuve-Vivienne, and he made haste to say:

"I have got to go much farther than that—Faubourg Saint-HonorÉ—and I ain't paid in advance."

"And I, too," said Paul, placing his crochets behind a porte cochÈre, "have got a long way to go, and I'm afraid it will take a long while."

"Where are you going?" asked Jean Ficelle.

"The gentleman who employed me told me not to talk; so it doesn't seem to me that I ought to tell where he sends me."

"Bah! you sneak!" muttered Jean, with a shrug.

"Well, my friends," said Sans-Cravate, as he donned his fur cap, "the day ends well. I don't know whether you'll be paid as generously as me; but, at all events, I'll treat; let's have supper together to-night at my regular little wine shop on Rue Saint-Lazare. Does that hit you?"

"It does me," replied Jean Ficelle; "we'll meet there to-night, then; it's agreed."

"I can't," said Paul; "I have business this evening; I must go to see a certain person, a long way from here, and——"

"Nonsense, Paul! I won't listen to such reasons as that; you can attend to your business to-morrow. I want you to have supper with us. I've invited you two or three times, and you always refuse. CrÉdiÉ! if you don't come to-night, I shall think you're proud, and afraid of lowering yourself by sitting at the same table with me."

"Proud! proud of what, for God's sake?" muttered Jean, in so low a tone that Paul could not hear him. The latter hesitated a moment before replying:

"Oh! Sans-Cravate, you surely can't think that I am proud. Am I not a messenger, like you?"

"Very well, then; you'll come, that's settled. I must be off and do my errands. By the way, friends, if one of you sees Bastringuette before I do, just tell her where we sup. If we should feast without her, I should be a dead man to-morrow."

As he spoke, Sans-Cravate started off along the boulevard. Jean Ficelle waited a short time, then took the same direction, muttering:

"To be afraid that a woman will scold you, and not dare to treat yourself without her! that must be pleasant, on my word! And he calls himself a man! I call him a milksop. The real men aren't those who strike the hardest—but the sly dogs who know how to make dupes."

Monsieur Jean Ficelle had left the stand and Paul was about to follow his example, after a parting glance at the house in which the dressmaker lived, when a young woman with fair hair, blue eyes, and smiling red lips came out through the porte cochÈre, and, having nimbly crossed the gutter, walked toward the young messenger. She wore a coarse linen dress, and a black apron fastened about her waist by a silk cord; on her head was a very simple cap, unadorned with flowers or ribbons; but the simplicity of her costume did not prevent people from noticing her and, in many cases, from turning to glance after her; for her face was very pleasant to look upon, her figure perfectly proportioned, her carriage graceful, her gait light and springy; in a word, there was in her whole aspect that indefinable something which at once attracts and captivates the eye: a fortunate gift of nature, which carries with it all other gifts in the case of the women who possess it. I say women, because, in general, the something in question applies to women rather than to men. It is that indefinable something which compels us to submit to the empire of two eyes which do not need to be very large or very beautiful to lead us captive; it is enough if they have that something. O ye who possess it, envy not the regular beauties, the Greek or Roman profiles, the correct and faultlessly proportioned features, of your rivals! If you are not of those women whom men admire, you are of those whom they desire, and that is much better.

When he saw the girl coming toward him, Paul stood as if rooted to the spot; he could not go away. He quickly removed his cap, and at the same time lowered his eyes with a timid air, as if he dared not presume to salute the young dressmaker, but desired to manifest his respect for her.

But Elina stopped in front of him and said, with an amiable smile:

"Good-evening, Monsieur Paul! I am very glad to find you."

"Can I be of service to you in any way, mademoiselle? Pray speak; I am at your disposition, day and night, whenever you choose. I am so happy when you are good enough to employ me!"

As he spoke, Paul raised his eyes until they rested on the girl's face, who seemed not at all displeased; but in an instant, as if he repented of his temerity, he hung his head and sighed.

"You are always so obliging, Monsieur Paul, that I thought of you for—listen, it is this: I live with my aunt, Madame Vardeine, who has taken care of me since my parents died; she says that I owe her a great deal of money, although my father left me a little something—fifteen thousand francs, I believe; that isn't a fortune, but still it's enough to live on, and one can be very comfortable with that, if one has a trade too; isn't that so?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; with orderly habits and hard work, one may become rich with that amount of money."

"Do you really think so? It must be very nice to be rich! Well, as I was saying, my aunt is forever telling me that she does everything for me, that I cost her a great deal, that I spend much more than my money brings in—for she is my guardian. But, oh! Monsieur Paul, if you knew what she gives me for my breakfast and dinner, you would say that it was none too much! Luckily, I'm not a glutton, whatever she may say. Ten sous for breakfast and dinner—can one be a glutton with that?"

"No, indeed, mademoiselle. But it is very wrong of your aunt to give you so little for your food. Your money must certainly bring in seven hundred francs a year—which would give you about thirty-nine sous a day to spend. So if she gives you only ten sous for your board, she keeps twenty-nine for your lodging."

"Oh! I think you must be mistaken, Monsieur Paul; my aunt says that my money brings in barely twenty sous a day,—that's a long way from thirty-nine,—and that she has to use some of her own to clothe me."

"I am not mistaken, mademoiselle. I know how to reckon, for I haven't always been a messenger. For eight years, I was employed in a merchant's office, and I worked over figures and accounts all day."

"Really, Monsieur Paul? Ah! I thought—— You don't look like a messenger—like the others. You talk well, and you don't swear. Were you obliged to take up this business?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; my benefactor died, and I had not a sou. As I couldn't find a place, I thought it was better to be a messenger than to idle away my time and live, as so many do, at others' expense."

"You are quite right. After all, there is nothing despicable in being a messenger; you're not a servant, as the girls in our workroom are so fond of calling you. Oh! they say that to make me furious, because I always stand up for you."

"Stand up for me? You say that you sometimes talk about me in your workroom?"

Mademoiselle Elina blushed as she replied:

"Oh!—that is to say—we talk about messengers in general—and as we have employed you several times—— But I stand chattering here, when I came down to buy something at the linen draper's, and I haven't told you yet what I wanted to ask you. My aunt says that I talk too much. As far as that goes, perhaps she is right; it's such fun to talk—not with everybody, of course, but with people who—listen to you—and—that is to say—— Mon Dieu! it seems to me that I am getting all mixed up, and don't know what I am saying."

Paul ventured to glance at the pretty dressmaker once more. Her face wore such a comical expression, as she twisted a corner of her apron in her hands, that the young man smiled involuntarily, and his smile was reflected on Elina's lips; for between two persons who are sympathetic a smile is like a train of powder: the spark is hardly applied at one end before it reaches the other.

"I wanted to ask you, Monsieur Paul, if you could come and help me move to-morrow morning?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; with great pleasure."

"You must come very early, so that it can be all done before it is time for me to go to my work."

"I will come as early as you wish, mademoiselle. Where are you going to move?"

"Oh! in the same house. We live on Rue Taitbout, you know—for you have sometimes been kind enough to carry my bundles home for me, because, you said, they were too heavy for a young girl."

"It was a very great pleasure to me, mademoiselle. I am so happy when you deign to permit me—when I can—when I have the honor——"

Paul stopped, for he found that he too was getting confused; but Elina did not seem surprised; on the contrary, was it not natural that he should have the same experience that she had had a moment before? should not the same causes always produce the same effects?

"You see, Monsieur Paul, my aunt has found another apartment on the same floor, the fourth, which isn't so dear, and where she says we shall be quite as comfortable. She herself certainly will be, for she has a room as large as her other one, with a splendid fireplace. But it isn't the same with me; where we are now, I have a little room opening on the little hallway. It's pretty small; just big enough for my bed, a commode that was my mother's, two chairs, and a little table covered with red leather, which father used for a desk. Those things are all that I have that belonged to my parents, and I think a great deal of them. Well! where we're going to-morrow, there's nothing for me but a little box of a place, which was once part of a dark room used as a hall; and I never shall be able to get my commode and table into it. But my aunt declares that I shall be better off, that I shall be warmer, and that it's very healthy to sleep in a loft."

"Your aunt is very blameworthy, mademoiselle, to make you sleep in a loft, for it is very unhealthy, I say. You have the right to demand a room for yourself. She must be very miserly. If you like, I will speak to her, and make her understand that she mustn't treat you so cruelly, that you are not a burden to her, far from it, but——"

"Oh! no, no, Monsieur Paul; if my aunt knew that I had dared to complain of her, she would be angry and would scold me. No, you mustn't say anything to her. After all, what difference does it make if I haven't a room of my own? I am at home so little; I go away at eight in the morning to my work, and I don't leave the workroom till nine at night, sometimes later, when there's a press of work. So you see I am hardly ever in my room except to sleep, and at my age one can sleep soundly anywhere. And then, my aunt isn't really unkind, only she always thinks of herself first. Oh! she never thinks of depriving herself of anything, either for her breakfast or her dinner; but she says that a young girl ought to be economical and abstemious; she is quite right, too, and I assure you that with my ten sous I have all I need to eat. Indeed, there are some days when I don't spend it all; I keep a little for the next day, and then I have a feast. Mon Dieu! how I rattle on! My mistress will tell me I have been gone too long. It is a question of helping me to move, Monsieur Paul. As we are going to stay on the same floor, my aunt told me to get the concierge to help me, as he and I could move everything. But he is very old, and I'm afraid he isn't strong enough to move the things with me; so, if you can come——"

"Certainly, mademoiselle; I will move everything, never fear; there will be no need for you to tire yourself."

"Oh! I expect to help you. Well, then, Monsieur Paul, until to-morrow morning! come early, won't you?"

"Before daybreak, if you wish, mademoiselle."

"Oh, no! it is light before five o'clock now; if you can come at half-past five or quarter to six, that will be quite early enough."

"Very well, mademoiselle; I will be prompt."

"By the way, you must knock softly, so as not to wake my aunt; for she gets up very late. We can move everything except her bed."

"We won't make any noise, mademoiselle."

"Adieu, Monsieur Paul! Oh, dear! now I don't know what I was going to buy at the linen draper's; in talking with you, I have entirely forgotten."

"Thread, perhaps—or ribbon—or needles?"

"No, no. Oh! what a head I have! Never mind; I'll go back and say they hadn't any. Then madame will say that it's taken me a long time to find that out."

"Don't you want me to go up to Madame Dumanchon's, mademoiselle? I'll tell her that you have forgotten what color you were to buy, or how much."

"Oh, no! for then they would know that I have been talking to you; and the girls are always making fun of me now, because——"

"Because you are kind enough to employ me in preference to others?"

"Yes; and then, I—I said that you were above your calling. And I was right too, as you were in a merchant's employ for a long while; but still, they are so unkind! Well, it can't be helped; I must go back. I will admit that I have forgotten what I came out for, and I shall be scolded; but that's a small matter."

The girl turned and walked dolefully back toward the house opposite, and was just passing through the door, when she suddenly jumped for joy and ran back across the street, saying to Paul as she passed him:

"Whalebones, small, thin whalebones, to put in the back of a dress, I remember now. Adieu, until to-morrow!"

Paul looked after her until she turned into the boulevard; and even when he could no longer see her, he continued to gaze in that direction, as if it prolonged his happiness. But in a moment he exclaimed:

"Mon Dieu! I have forgotten that young gentleman's errands!"

He was about to start and make up for the time he had lost, when he felt a hand upon his arm. He turned and found that it was the flower girl who was detaining him.

"Let me go, Bastringuette, let me go!" he said; "I am in a great hurry; I have some errands to do."

"In a hurry, are you? I say! you didn't seem to be a minute ago, for you've been having a nice little chin with the little dressmaker. She plays a pretty game with her mouth, she does. You seem to have had lots of things to tell her, flatterer!"

"It's just because I have been talking so long that I am behindhand. By the way, Bastringuette, Sans-Cravate expects you to sup with him to-night at his wine shop on Rue Saint-Lazare. He means to treat everybody."

"Shall you be in the crowd?"

"Why—perhaps so."

"I want you to be—if not, I won't go. Monster! who knows that I love him, that I am cracked over his shape, and still he won't honor me with a look, while he talks yards at a time with little hussies of dressmakers!"

"I am not in the habit of making eyes at my friends' mistresses, Bastringuette; and Sans-Cravate is my friend."

"I don't care a hang; I haven't sworn to love the same man and no one else all my life. That would be too monotonous; it's all right for the swells to take that kind of oaths and then break 'em. I prefer to act on the square, and I wouldn't hesitate to say before Sans-Cravate that I am stuck on you."

"You are mad. Let me go, I insist!"

Paul succeeded in releasing his jacket from the flower girl's grasp, and ran off at full speed; while Bastringuette crushed one of her bunches of violets, muttering:

"That's what comes of loving such beasts! Well, it don't make any difference; the more he resists me, the more I love him. That's my nature! we can't make ourselves over."