All perfectly true again. Was there not Private Valentine in that very
house, acting as sole housemaid, valet, cook, steward, and nurse, in the
family of his captain, Monsieur le Capitaine de la Cour,--cleaning the
floors, making the beds, doing the marketing, dressing the captain,
dressing the dinners, dressing the salads, and dressing the baby, all
with equal readiness? Or, to put him aside, he being in loyal attendance
on his Chief, was there not Private Hyppolite, billeted at the Perfumer's
two hundred yards off, who, when not on duty, volunteered to keep shop
while the fair Perfumeress stepped out to speak to a neighbour or so, and
laughingly sold soap with his war-sword girded on him? Was there not
Emile, billeted at the Clock-maker's, perpetually turning to of an
evening, with his coat off, winding up the stock? Was there not Eugene,
billeted at the Tinman's, cultivating, pipe in mouth, a garden four feet
square, for the Tinman, in the little court, behind the shop, and
extorting the fruits of the earth from the same, on his knees, with the
sweat of his brow? Not to multiply examples, was there not Baptiste,
billeted on the poor Water-carrier, at that very instant sitting on the
pavement in the sunlight, with his martial legs asunder, and one of the
Water-carrier's spare pails between them, which (to the delight and glory
of the heart of the Water-carrier coming across the Place from the
fountain, yoked and burdened) he was painting bright-green outside and
bright-red within? Or, to go no farther than the Barber's at the very
next door, was there not Corporal Theophile--

"No," said Mr. The Englishman, glancing down at the Barber's, "he is not
there at present. There's the child, though."

A mere mite of a girl stood on the steps of the Barber's shop, looking
across the Place. A mere baby, one might call her, dressed in the close