“I tell you, no!”

“I tell you, yes!”

“I tell you, no!”

The good, fat Oudarde was preparing to reply, and the quarrel would no doubt have ended in the pulling of caps, had not Mahiette suddenly made a diversion by exclaiming:

“Look at those people gathered over there at the end of the bridge. There’s something in the middle of the crowd that they’re looking at.”

“True,” said Gervaise. “I hear a tambourine. I think it must be little Esmeralda doing tricks with her goat. Quick, Mahiette, mend your pace and bring your boy! You came to see the sights of Paris. Yesterday you saw the Flemings; to-day you must see the gipsy.”

“The gipsy!” cried Mahiette, turning round and clutching her boy by the arm. “God preserve us! She might steal my child! Come, Eustache!”

And she set off running along the quay towards the Grève till she had left the bridge far behind her. Presently the boy, whom she dragged rapidly after her, stumbled and fell on his knees. She drew up breathless, and Oudarde and Gervaise were able to join her.

“That gipsy steal your child!” said Gervaise. “What a very strange notion!”

Mahiette shook her head thoughtfully.

“The strange thing about it,” observed Oudarde, “is that the sachette has the same notion about the Egyptian women.”

“The sachette?” asked Mahiette. “What is that?”

“Why, Sister Gudule, to be sure,” answered Oudarde.

“And who is Sister Gudule?”

“It is very evident that you have lived in Reims not to know that!” exclaimed Oudarde. “That is the nun in the Rat-Hole.”

“What?” said Mahiette, “not the poor woman we are taking this cake to?”

Oudarde nodded. “Yes, the very one. You will see her directly at her window looking on the Grève. She thinks the same as you about these vagabonds of Egypt that go about with their tambourines and fortune- telling. Nobody knows why she has this abhorrence of Zingari and Egyptians. But you, Mahiette, why should you run away at the mere sight of them?”

“Oh,” answered Mahiette, clasping her boy’s fair head to her bosom, “I would not have that happen to me that happened to Paquette la Chantefleurie.”

“Oh, you must tell us that story, my good Mahiette,” said Gervaise, taking her arm.

“Willingly,” returned Mahiette, “but it is very evident that you have lived in Paris not to know it! Well, you must know—but there is no need for us to stand still while I tell you the story—that Paquette la Chantefleurie was a pretty girl of eighteen when I too was one—that is to say, eighteen years ago—and has had only herself to blame if she’s not, like me, a buxom, hearty woman of six-and-thirty, with a husband and a fine boy. But there!—from the time she was fourteen it was too late! I must tell you,