“Because, when about to execute this project, I examined myself sincerely, and my courage failed.  I feel that I could never resume the habit of labor, and renounce this mode of life, sometimes rich, as to day, sometimes precarious,—­but at least free and full of leisure, joyous and without care, and at worst a thousand times preferable to living upon four francs a week.  Not that interest has guided me.  Many times have I refused to exchange a lover, who had little or nothing, for a rich man, that I did not like.  Nor have I ever asked anything for myself.  Jacques has spent perhaps ten thousand francs the last three or four months, yet we only occupy two half-furnished rooms, because we always live out of doors, like the birds:  fortunately, when I first loved him, he had nothing at all, and I had just sold some jewels that had been given me, for a hundred francs, and put this sum in the lottery.  As mad people and fools are always lucky, I gained a prize of four thousand francs.  Jacques was as gay, and light-headed, and full of fun as myself, so we said:  ’We love each other very much, and, as long as this money lasts, we will keep up the racket; when we have no more, one of two things will happen—­either we shall be tired of one another, and so part—­or else we shall love each other still, and then, to remain together, we shall try and get work again; and, if we cannot do so, and yet will not part—­a bushel of charcoal will do our business!’”

“Good heaven!” cried Mother Bunch, turning pale.

“Be satisfied! we have not come to that.  We had still something left, when a kind of agent, who had paid court to me, but who was so ugly that I could not bear him for all his riches, knowing that I was living with Jacques asked me to—­But why should I trouble you with all these details?  In one word, he lent Jacques money, on some sort of a doubtful claim he had, as was thought, to inherit some property.  It is with this money that we are amusing ourselves—­as long as its lasts.”

“But, my dear Cephyse, instead of spending this money so foolishly, why not put it out to interest, and marry Jacques, since you love him?”

“Oh! in the first place,” replied the Bacchanal Queen, laughing, as her gay and thoughtless character resumed its ascendancy, “to put money out to interest gives one no pleasure.  All the amusement one has is to look at a little bit of paper, which one gets in exchange for the nice little pieces of gold, with which one can purchase a thousand pleasures.  As for marrying, I certainly like Jacques better than I ever liked any one; but it seems to me, that, if we were married, all our happiness would end—­for while he is only my lover, he cannot reproach me with what has passed—­but, as my husband, he would be stare to upbraid me, sooner or later, and if my conduct deserves blame, I prefer giving it to myself, because I shall do it more tenderly.”

“Mad girl that you are!  But this money will not last forever.  What is to be done next?”