“No, I like the mixed screws the best.”

Muche thereupon took hold of her arm, and she unresistingly allowed him to lead her away.  They crossed the Rue Rambuteau, followed the broad footway skirting the markets, and went as far as a grocer’s shop in the Rue de la Cossonnerie which was celebrated for its mixed screws.  These mixed screws are small screws of paper in which grocers put up all sorts of damaged odds and ends, broken sugar-plums, fragments of crystallised chestnuts—­all the doubtful residuum of their jars of sweets.  Muche showed himself very gallant, allowed Pauline to choose the screw—­a blue one—­paid his sou, and did not attempt to dispossess her of the sweets.  Outside, on the footway, she emptied the miscellaneous collection of scraps into both pockets of her pinafore; and they were such little pockets that they were quite filled.  Then in delight she began to munch the fragments one by one, wetting her fingers to catch the fine sugary dust, with such effect that she melted the scraps of sweets, and the pockets of her pinafore soon showed two brownish stains.  Muche laughed slily to himself.  He had his arm about the girl’s waist, and rumpled her frock at his ease whilst leading her round the corner of the Rue Pierre Lescot, in the direction of the Place des Innocents.

“You’ll come and play now, won’t you?” he asked.  “That’s nice what you’ve got in your pockets, ain’t it?  You see that I didn’t want to do you any harm, you big silly!”

Thereupon he plunged his own fingers into her pockets, and they entered the square together.  To this spot, no doubt, he had all along intended to lure his victim.  He did the honours of the square as though it were his own private property, and indeed it was a favourite haunt of his, where he often larked about for whole afternoons.  Pauline had never before strayed so far from home, and would have wept like an abducted damsel had it not been that her pockets were full of sweets.  The fountain in the middle of the flowered lawn was sending sheets of water down its tiers of basins, whilst, between the pilasters above, Jean Goujon’s nymphs, looking very white beside the dingy grey stonework, inclined their urns and displayed their nude graces in the grimy air of the Saint Denis quarter.  The two children walked round the fountain, watching the water fall into the basins, and taking an interest in the grass, with thoughts, no doubt, of crossing the central lawn, or gliding into the clumps of holly and rhododendrons that bordered the railings of the square.  Little Muche, however, who had now effectually rumpled the back of the pretty frock, said with his sly smile: 

“Let’s play at throwing sand at each other, eh?”

Pauline had no will of her own left; and they began to throw the sand at each other, keeping their eyes closed meanwhile.  The sand made its way in at the neck of the girl’s low bodice, and trickled down into her stockings and boots.  Muche was delighted to see the white pinafore become quite yellow.  But he doubtless considered that it was still far too clean.