fire, and at the same time seemed to enjoy the warmth of a bright ray of sunshine, which enveloped her in its golden light.  This droll little creature was dressed in the oddest costume, which, however, displayed to advantage the freshness of her piquant and pretty countenance, crowned with its fine, fair hair, always neatly combed and arranged the first thing in the morning.  By way of dressing-gown, Rose-Pompon had ingeniously drawn over her linen, the ample scarlet flannel shirt which belonged to Philemon’s official garb in the rowing-club; the collar, open and turned down, displayed the whiteness of the young girl’s under garment, as also of her neck and shoulders, on whose firm and polished surface the scarlet shirt seemed to cast a rosy light.  The grisette’s fresh and dimpled arms half protruded from the large, turned-up sleeves; and her charming legs were also half visible, crossed one over the other, and clothed in neat white stockings, and boots.  A black silk cravat formed the girdle which fastened the shirt round the wasp-like waist of Rose-Pompon, just above those hips, worthy of the enthusiasm of a modern Phidias, and which gave to this style of dress a grace very original.

We have said, that the breakfast of Rose-Pompon was singular.  You shall judge.  On a little table placed before her, was a wash-hand-basin, into which she had recently plunged her fresh face, bathing it in pure water.  From the bottom of this basin, now transformed into a salad-bowl, Rose Pompon took with the tips of her fingers large green leaves, dripping with vinegar, and crunched them between her tiny white teeth, whose enamel was too hard to allow them to be set on edge.  Her drink was a glass of water and syrup of gooseberries, which she stirred with a wooden mustard-spoon.  Finally, as an extra dish, she had a dozen olives in one of those blue glass trinket-dishes sold for twenty-five sous.  Her dessert was composed of nuts, which she prepared to roast on a red-hot shovel.  That Rose-Pompon, with such an unaccountable savage choice of food, should retain a freshness of complexion worthy of her name, is one of those miracles, which reveal the mighty power of youth and health.  When she had eaten her salad, Rose-Pompon was about to begin upon her olives, when a low knock was heard at the door, which was modestly bolted on the inside.

“Who is there?” said Rose-Pompon.

“A friend—­the oldest of the old,” replied a sonorous, jovial voice.  “Why do you lock yourself in?”

“What! is it you, Ninny Moulin?”

“Yes, my beloved pupil.  Open quickly.  Time presses.”

“Open to you?  Oh, I dare say!—­that would be pretty, the figure I am!”

“I believe you! what does it matter what figure you are?  It would be very pretty, thou rosiest of all the roses with which Cupid ever adorned his quiver!”

“Go and preach fasting and morality in your journal, fat apostle!” said Rose—­Pompon, as she restored the scarlet shirt to its place, with Philemon’s other garments.