He was called so in all the country round as well, not with the slightest intention of hurting his feelings, but, on the contrary, because all thought they would please the poor gentle creature who harmed nobody.

The very street boys meant no harm by it, accustomed as they were to call the tall idiot in a frock and cap, so; but it would have struck them as very extraordinary, and would have led them to in rude fun, if they had seen him dressed like a boy.

Mademoiselle, however, took care of that, for his dress was as dear to him as his nickname.  He delighted in wearing it, and, in fact, cared for nothing else, and what gave it a particular zest was, that he knew that he was not a girl, and that he was living in disguise.  And this was evident, by the exaggerated feminine bearing and walk he put on, as if to show that it was not natural to him.  His enormous, carefully frilled cap was adorned with large variegated ribbons.  His petticoat, with numerous flounces, was distended behind by many hoops.  He walked with short steps, and with exaggerated swaying of the hips, while his folded arms and crossed hands were distorted into pretensions of comical coquetry.

On such occasions, if anybody wished to make friends with him, it was necessary to say: 

“Ah! Mademoiselle, what a nice girl you make.”

That put him into a good humor, and he used to reply, much pleased: 

“Don’t I?  But people can see I only do it for a joke.”

But, nevertheless, when they were dancing at village festivals in the neighborhood, he would always be invited to dance as Mademoiselle, and would never ask any of the girls to dance with him; and one evening when somebody asked him the reason for this, he opened his eyes wide, laughed as if the man had said something very stupid, and replied: 

“I cannot ask the girls because I am not dressed like a lad.  Just look at my dress, you fool!”

As his interrogator was a judicious man, he said to him: 

“Then dress like one, Mademoiselle.”

He thought for a moment, and then said with a cunning look: 

“But if I dress like a lad, I shall no longer be a girl; but then, I am a girl;” and he shrugged his shoulders as he said it.

But the remark seemed to make him think.

For some time afterwards, when he met the same person, he asked him abruptly: 

“If I dress like a lad, will you still call me Mademoiselle?”

“Of course, I shall,” the other replied.  “You will always be called so.”

The idiot appeared delighted, for there was no doubt that he thought more of his nickname than he did of his dress, and the next day he made his appearance in the village square without his petticoats and dressed as a man.  He had taken a pair of trousers, a coat and a hat, from his guardian’s clothes-press, and this created quite a revolution in the neighborhood, for the people, who had been in the habit of smiling at him kindly when he was dressed as a woman, looked at him in astonishment and almost in fear, while the indulgent could not help laughing, and visibly making fun of him.