comes logic.  So it was that, the first day the above-mentioned Carandas saw his old comrade’s children, saw the handsome priest, saw the beautiful wife of the dyer, saw La Taschereau, all seated at the table, and saw to his detriment the best piece of lamprey given with a certain air by La Tascherette to her friend the priest, the mechanician said to himself, “My old friend is a cuckold, his wife intrigues with the little confessor, and the children have been begotten with his holy water.  I’ll show them that the hunchbacks have something more than other men.”

And this was true—­true as it is that Tours has always had its feet in the Loire, like a pretty girl who bathes herself and plays with the water, making a flick-flack, by beating the waves with her fair white hands; for the town is more smiling, merry, loving, fresh, flowery, and fragrant than all the other towns of the world, which are not worthy to comb her locks or to buckle her waistband.  And be sure if you go there you will find, in the centre of it, a sweet place, in which is a delicious street where everyone promenades, where there is always a breeze, shade, sun, rain, and love.  Ha! ha! laugh away, but go there.  It is a street always new, always royal, always imperial—­a patriotic street, a street with two paths, a street open at both ends, a wide street, a street so large that no one has ever cried, “Out of the way!” there.  A street which does not wear out, a street which leads to the abbey of Grand-mont, and to a trench, which works very well with the bridge, and at the end of which is a finer fair ground.  A street well paved, well built, well washed, as clean as a glass, populous, silent at certain times, a coquette with a sweet nightcap on its pretty blue tiles—­to be short, it is the street where I was born; it is the queen of streets, always between the earth and sky; a street with a fountain; a street which lacks nothing to be celebrated among streets; and, in fact, it is the real street, the only street of Tours.  If there are others, they are dark, muddy, narrow, and damp, and all come respectfully to salute this noble street, which commands them.  Where am I?  For once in this street no one cares to come out of it, so pleasant it is.  But I owed this filial homage, this descriptive hymn sung from the heart to my natal street, at the corners of which there are wanting only the brave figures of my good master Rabelais, and of Monsieur Descartes, both unknown to the people of the country.  To resume:  the said Carandas was, on his return from Flanders, entertained by his comrade, and by all those by whom he was liked for his jokes, his drollery, and quaint remarks.  The good hunchback appeared cured of his old love, embraced the children, and when he was alone with the dyer’s wife, recalled the night in the clothes-chest, and the night in the sewer, to her memory, saying to her, “Ha, ha! what games you used to have with me.”