There was a full kirtle of gray wool, falling to my ankles, and a white apron.  There was a white blouse with a wide, turned-back collar, and a scarlet bodice, laced with black cords over a green tongue.  I was soon in such a desperate tangle over these divers garments, so utterly muddled as to which to put on first, and which side forward, and which end up, and where and how by the grace of God to fasten them, that M. Etienne, with roars of laughter, came unsteadily to my aid.  He insisted on stuffing the whole of my jerkin under my blouse to give my figure the proper curves, and to make me a waist he drew the lacing-cords till I was like to suffocate.  His mirth had by this time got me to laughing so that every time he pulled me in, a fit of merriment would jerk the laces from his fingers before he could tie them.  This happened once and again, and the more it happened the more we laughed and the less he could dress me.  I ached in every rib, and the tears were running down his cheeks, washing little clean channels in the stain.

“Felix, this will never do,” he gasped when at length he could speak.  “Never after a carouse have I been so maudlin.  Compose yourself, for the love of Heaven.  Think of something serious; think of me!  Think of Peyrot, think of Mayenne, think of Lucas.  Think of what will happen to us now if Mayenne know us for ourselves.”

“Enough, monsieur,” I said.  “I am sobered.”

But even now that I held still we could not draw the last holes in the bodice-point nearly together.

“Nay, monsieur, I can never wear it like this,” I panted, when he had tied it as tight as he could.  “I shall die, or I shall burst the seams.”  He had perforce to give me more room; he pulled the apron higher to cover gaps, and fastened a bunch of keys and a pocket at my waist.  He set a brown wig on my head, nearly covered by a black mortier, with its wide scarf hanging down my back.

“Hang me, but you make a fine, strapping grisette,” he cried, proud of me as if I were a picture, he the painter.  “Felix, you’ve no notion how handsome you look.  Dame! you defrauded the world when you contrived to be born a boy.”

“I thank my stars I was born a boy,” I declared.  “I wouldn’t get into this toggery for any one else on earth.  I tell monsieur that, flat.”

“You must change your shoes,” he cried eagerly.  “Your hobnails spoil all.”

I put one of his gossip’s shoes on the floor beside my foot.

“Now, monsieur, I ask you, how am I to get into that?”

“Shall I fetch you Vigo’s?” he grinned.

“No, Constant’s,” I said instantly, thinking how it would make him writhe to lend them.

“Constant’s best,” he promised, disappearing.  It was as good as a play to see my lord running errands for me.  Perhaps he forgot, after a month in the Rue Coupejarrets, that such things as pages existed; or, more likely, he did not care to take the household into his confidence.  He was back soon, with a pair of scarlet hose, and shoes of red morocco, the gayest affairs you ever saw.  Also he brought a hand-mirror, for me to look on my beauty.