So saying, laughing with all her might, Rose-Pompon drew her pretty little white arm from under her cloak, and presented to Mother Arsene one of those champagne glasses of colossal capacity, which hold about a bottle.

“Oh, dear!” said the greengrocer in amazement; “it is like a glass trumpet.”

“It is Philemon’s grand gala-glass, which they gave him when he took his degrees in boating,” said Rose-Pompon, gravely.

“And to think you must put your milk in it—­I am really ashamed,” said Mother Arsene.

“So am I!  If I were to meet any one on the stairs, holding this glass in my hand like a Roman candlestick, I should burst out laughing, and break the last remnant of Philemon’s bazaar, and he would give me his malediction.”

“There is no danger that you will meet any one.  The first-floor is gone out, and the second gets up very late.”

“Talking of lodgers,” said Rose-Pompon, “is there not a room to let on the second-floor in the rear house?  It might do for Cephyse, when Philemon comes back.”

“Yes, there is a little closet in the roof—­just over the two rooms of the mysterious old fellow,” said Mother Arsene.

“Oh, yes!  Father Charlemagne.  Have you found out anything more about him?”

Dear me, no, my girl! only that he came this morning at break of day, and knocked at my shutters. `Have you received a letter for me, my good lady?’ said he—­for he is always so polite, the dear man!—­’No, sir,’ said I.—­`Well, then, pray don’t disturb yourself, my good lady!’ said he; `I will call again.’  And so he went away.”

“Does he never sleep in the house?”

“Never.  No doubt, he lodges somewhere else—­but he passes some hours here, once every four or five days.”

“And always comes alone?”

“Always.”

“Are you quite sure?  Does he never manage to slip in some little puss of a woman?  Take care, or Philemon will give you notice to quit,” said Rose-Pompon, with an air of mock-modesty.

“M.  Charlemagne with a woman!  Oh, poor dear man!” said the greengrocer, raising her hands to heaven; “if you saw him, with his greasy hat, his old gray coat, his patched umbrella, and his simple face, he looks more like a saint than anything else.”

“But then, Mother Arsene, what does the saint do here, all alone for hours, in that hole at the bottom of the court, where one can hardly see at noon-day?”

“That’s what I ask myself, my dovey, what can he be doing?  It can’t be that he comes to look at his furniture, for he has nothing but a flock bed, a table, a stove, a chair, and an old trunk.”

“Somewhat in the style of Philemon’s establishment,” said Rose-Pompon.

“Well, notwithstanding that, Rosey, he is as much afraid that any one should come into his room, as if we were all thieves, and his furniture was made of massy gold.  He has had a patent lock put on the door, at his own expense; he never leaves me his key; and he lights his fire himself, rather than let anybody into his room.”