words anglicized by a process of his own, and with native idioms literally translated.  The result, in the form in which he in all humility presented it, would be scarcely comprehensible to the reader, so that I have ventured to trim and sift it.  Newman only half understood it, but it amused him, and the old man’s decent forlornness appealed to his democratic instincts.  The assumption of a fatality in misery always irritated his strong good nature—­it was almost the only thing that did so; and he felt the impulse to wipe it out, as it were, with the sponge of his own prosperity.  The papa of Mademoiselle Noemie, however, had apparently on this occasion been vigorously indoctrinated, and he showed a certain tremulous eagerness to cultivate unexpected opportunities.

“How much do I owe you, then, with the frame?” asked Newman.

“It will make in all three thousand francs,” said the old man, smiling agreeably, but folding his hands in instinctive suppliance.

“Can you give me a receipt?”

“I have brought one,” said M. Nioche.  “I took the liberty of drawing it up, in case monsieur should happen to desire to discharge his debt.”  And he drew a paper from his pocket-book and presented it to his patron.  The document was written in a minute, fantastic hand, and couched in the choicest language.

Newman laid down the money, and M. Nioche dropped the napoleons one by one, solemnly and lovingly, into an old leathern purse.

“And how is your young lady?” asked Newman.  “She made a great impression on me.”

“An impression?  Monsieur is very good.  Monsieur admires her appearance?”

“She is very pretty, certainly.”

“Alas, yes, she is very pretty!”

“And what is the harm in her being pretty?”

M. Nioche fixed his eyes upon a spot on the carpet and shook his head.  Then looking up at Newman with a gaze that seemed to brighten and expand, “Monsieur knows what Paris is.  She is dangerous to beauty, when beauty hasn’t the sou.”

“Ah, but that is not the case with your daughter.  She is rich, now.”

“Very true; we are rich for six months.  But if my daughter were a plain girl I should sleep better all the same.”

“You are afraid of the young men?”

“The young and the old!”

“She ought to get a husband.”

“Ah, monsieur, one doesn’t get a husband for nothing.  Her husband must take her as she is:  I can’t give her a sou.  But the young men don’t see with that eye.”

“Oh,” said Newman, “her talent is in itself a dowry.”

“Ah, sir, it needs first to be converted into specie!” and M. Nioche slapped his purse tenderly before he stowed it away.  “The operation doesn’t take place every day.”

“Well, your young men are very shabby,” said Newman; “that’s all I can say.  They ought to pay for your daughter, and not ask money themselves.”

“Those are very noble ideas, monsieur; but what will you have?  They are not the ideas of this country.  We want to know what we are about when we marry.”