“To be sure,” said Rose-Pompon, twisting about as if she still wore the costume of a debardeur.

“I will say more,” added Rodin:  “I love him because of his follies; for, talk as we may, my dear child, there is always something good at bottom, a good heart, or something, in those who spend generously their money for other people.”

“Well, come! you are a very good sort of a man,” said Rose-Pompon, enchanted with Rodin’s philosophy.  “But why will you not come and see Cephyse, and talk to her of Jacques?”

“Of what use would it be to tell her what she knows already—­that Jacques is in prison?  What I should like, would be to get the worthy fellow out of his scrape.”

“Oh, sir! only do that, only get Jacques out of prison,” cried Rose Pompon, warmly, “and we will both give you a kiss—­me and Cephyse!”

“It would be throwing kisses away, dear little madcap!” said Rodin, smiling.  “But be satisfied, I want no reward to induce me to do good when I can.”

“Then you hope to get Jacques out of prison?”

Rodin shook his head, and answered with a grieved and disappointed air.  “I did hope it.  Certainly, I did hope it; but now all is changed.”

“How’s that?” asked Rose-Pompon, with surprise.

“That foolish joke of calling me M. Rodin may appear very amusing to you, my dear child.  I understand it, you being only an echo.  Some one has said to you:  `Go and tell M. Charlemagne that he is one M. Rodin.  That will be very funny.’”

“Certainly, I should never myself have thought of calling you M. Rodin.  One does not invent such names,” answered Rose-Pompon.

“Well! that person with his foolish jokes, has done, without knowing it, a great injury to Jacques Rennepont.”

“What! because I called you Rodin instead of Charlemagne?” cried Rose Pompon, much regretting the pleasantry which she had carried on at the instigation of Ninny Moulin.  “But really, sir,” she added, “what can this joke have to do with the service that you were, about to render Jacques?”

“I am not at liberty to tell you, my child.  In truth, I am very sorry for poor Jacques.  Believe me, I am; but do let me pass.

“Listen to me, sir, I beg,” said Rose-Pompon; “if I told you the name of the person who told me to call you Rodin, would you interest yourself again for Jacques?”

“I do not wish to know any one’s secrets, my dear child.  In all this, you have been the echo of persons who are, perhaps, very dangerous; and, notwithstanding the interest I feel for Jacques Rennepont, I do not wish, you understand, to make myself enemies.  Heaven forbid!”

Rose-Pompon did not at all comprehend Rodin’s fears, and upon this he had counted; for after a second’s reflection, the young girl resumed:  “Well, sir—­this is too deep for me; I do not understand it.  All I know is, that I am truly sorry if I have injured a good young man by a mere joke.  I will tell you exactly how it happened.  My frankness may be of some use.”