—­Look, that is not all, pay me immediately and take yourself off somewhere else.  Has one ever seen anything like?  You believed perhaps that I was going to lodge you and keep you for your pretty face?  No, my dear.  I have been done already in that way, and you don’t catch me any more.  There was a respectable gentleman, very polite, rich, and wearing a red ribbon, who was answerable for you, if you had been willing to make an arrangement with him; but instead of making an arrangement with him, you have a dispute; so much the worse for you, your family quarrels don’t concern me.  What I want is the money, that is all that I know; pay me my bill and get out, you little prostitute.

—­Come, dear Madame, I will try and arrange this little matter, said Monsieur Tibulle, appearing again; the little one is going to think better of it, I feel sure.  Let me reason with her.

Madame Connard withdrew complacently.

—­You see, you see in what a position you are placing yourself, said the excellent old gentleman, crossing his arms and looking at the young girl with all the dignity and sorrow of a father who has detected his child in some shameful act.

—­Say rather into what an ambush you have driven me, you old scoundrel.

—­Oh, oh, oh! no bad word, my girl.  Bad words are no use.  I am going away to pay the bill.

—­A fig for you and your money.

—­What! a fig for me and my money!  In the first place you should never despise money, my girl; we can do nothing without money in this world.  And then you are wrong to despise me, who only wish you well, my dear; yes, yes, wish you well.

—­I tell you to leave me alone.

—­Look now, don’t be naughty, for I am going to settle the matter.

—­I don’t want you.  Don’t touch me....

—­And how are you going to get yourself out of this scrape, if you will not let me get you out.  You rebuff me again, though I only want to make you happy.

—­I tell you not to come near me.

—­Come, be pacified, you little angry cat; only a kiss and that shall be all.

He wanted to take hold of her waist, but she pushed him back.  But he had gone too far to believe that he ought to beat a retreat, and he retained to the charge with renewed vigour.  In the struggle she seized him by the neck, his waistcoat came undone, and a little square bit of painted canvas, of a dubious colour, remained in her hand.  She threw it back in his face in disgust.

—­My scapular! he cried.  You throw my scapular about in this way.  Stay, you are a little wretch, a street-walker, a hussy, a reprobate.  You will perish miserably, and I leave you to your fate.  Ah, you throw away my scapular!

When he had said this, the good gentleman piously recovered his scapular, buttoned up his overcoat, and retired full of dignity.

XCIII.