He led his horse away, and Petit Picpon went on an errand he had been sent to do in the streets for one of the officers.  Picpon was unusually thoughtful and sober in deportment for him, since he was usually given to making his progress along a road, taken unobserved by those in command over him, with hands and heels in the dexterous somersaults of his early days.

Now he went along without any unprofessional antics, biting the tip of a smoked-out cigar, which he had picked up off the pavement in sheer instinct, retained from the old times when he had used to rush in, the foremost of la queue, into the forsaken theaters of Bouffes or of Varietes in search for those odds and ends which the departed audience might have left behind them—­one of the favorite modes of seeking a livelihood with the Parisian night-birds.

“Dame!  I will give it up then,” resolved Picpon, half aloud, valorously.

Now Picpon had come forth on evil thoughts intent.

His officer—­a careless and extravagant man, the richest man in the regiment—­had given him a rather small velvet bag, sealed, with directions to take it to a certain notorious beauty of Algiers, whose handsome Moresco eyes smiled—­or, at least, he believed so—­exclusively for the time on the sender.  Picpon was very quick, intelligent, and much liked by his superiors, so that he was often employed on errands; and the tricks he played in the execution thereof were so adroitly done that they were never detected.  Picpon had chuckled to himself over this mission.  It was but the work of an instant for the lithe, nimble fingers of the ex-gamin to undo the bag without touching the seal; to see that it contained a hundred Napoleons with a note; to slip the gold into the folds of his ceinturon; to fill up the sack with date-stones; to make it assume its original form so that none could have imagined it had been touched, and to proceed with it thus to the Moorish lionne’s dwelling.  The negro who always opened her door would take it in; Picpon would hint to him to be careful, as it contained some rare and rich sweetmeats, negro nature, he well knew, would impel him to search for the bonbons; and the bag, under his clumsy treatment, would bear plain marks of having been tampered with, and, as the African had a most thievish reputation, he would never be believed if he swore himself guiltless.  Voila!  Here was a neat trick!  If it had a drawback, it was that it was too simple, too little risque.  A child might do it.

Still—­a hundred Naps!  What fat geese, what flagons of brandy, what dozens of wine, what rich soups, what tavern banquets they would bring!  Picpon had chuckled again as he arranged the little bag so carefully, with its date-stones, and pictured the rage of the beautiful Moor when she should discover the contents and order the stick to her negro.  Ah! that was what Picpon called fun!

To appreciate the full force of such fun, it is necessary to have also appreciated the gamin.  To understand the legitimate aspect such a theft bore, it is necessary to have also understood the unrecordable codes that govern the genus pratique, into which the genus gamin, when at maturity, develops.