All at once cries of “’Polyte!  ’Polyte!” were heard, and a nimble young man with a jester-like face hopped around the corner of the church, trundling a barrel.  Behind ’Polyte came two rotund little men perspiring freely, and laden down with various articles,—­a bird-cage with two yellow birds, a hat-trunk, an inlaid card box, a roll of scarlet cloth, and I know not what else.  They deposited these on the grass beside the barrel, which ’Polyte had set on end and proceeded to mount, encouraged by the shouts of his friends, who pressed around the barrel.

“It’s an auction,” I said.

But Nick did not hear me.  I followed his glance to the far side of the circle, and my eye was caught by a red ribbon, a blush that matched it.  A glance shot from underneath long lashes,—­but not for me.  Beside the girl, and palpably uneasy, stood the young man who had been called Gaspard.

“Ah,” said I, “your angel of the tumbrel.”

But Nick had pulled off his hat and was sweeping her a bow.  The girl looked down, smoothing her ribbon, Gaspard took a step forward, and other young women near us tittered with delight.  The voice of Hippolyte rolling his r’s called out in a French dialect:—­

“M’ssieurs et Mesdames, ce sont des effets d’un pauvre officier qui est mort.  Who will buy?” He opened the hat-trunk, produced an antiquated beaver with a gold cord, and surveyed it with a covetousness that was admirably feigned.  For ’Polyte was an actor.  “M’ssieurs, to own such a hat were a patent of nobility.  Am I bid twenty livres?”

There was a loud laughter, and he was bid four.

“Gaspard,” cried the auctioneer, addressing the young man of the tumbrel, “Suzanne would no longer hesitate if she saw you in such a hat.  And with the trunk, too.  Ah, mon Dieu, can you afford to miss it?”

The crowd howled, Suzanne simpered, and Gaspard turned as pink as clover.  But he was not to be bullied.  The hat was sold to an elderly person, the red cloth likewise; a pot of grease went to a housewife, and there was a veritable scramble for the box of playing cards; and at last Hippolyte held up the wooden cage with the fluttering yellow birds.

“Ha!” he cried, his eyes on Gaspard once more, “a gentle present—­a present to make a heart relent.  And Monsieur Leon, perchance you will make a bid, although they are not gamecocks.”

Instantly, from somewhere under the barrel, a cock crew.  Even the yellow birds looked surprised, and as for ’Polyte, he nearly dropped the cage.  One elderly person crossed himself.  I looked at Nick.  His face was impassive, but suddenly I remembered his boyhood gift, how he had imitated the monkeys, and I began to shake with inward laughter.  There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Peste, c’est la magie!” said an old man at last, searching with an uncertain hand for his snuff.

“Monsieur,” cried Nick to the auctioneer, “I will make a bid.  But first you must tell me whether they are cocks or yellow birds.”