when the children have more sense than their fathers."

"Why, the quarter has long been saying he is in some mischief," said
Lallier.

"Excuse him on that point, crony," said the furrier. "Youth is
foolish; it runs after new things; but Babette will keep him quiet;
she is newer than Calvin."

Babette smiled; she loved Christophe, and was angry when anything was
said against him. She was one of those daughters of the old
bourgeoisie brought up under the eyes of a mother who never left her.
Her bearing was gentle and correct as her face; she always wore
woollen stuffs of gray, harmonious in tone; her chemisette, simply
pleated, contrasted its whiteness against the gown. Her cap of brown
velvet was like an infant's coif, but it was trimmed with a ruche and
lappets of tanned gauze, that is, of a tan color, which came down on
each side of her face. Though fair and white as a true blonde, she
seemed to be shrewd and roguish, all the while trying to hide her
roguishness under the air and manner of a well-trained girl. While the
two servant-women went and came, laying the cloth and placing the
jugs, the great pewter dishes, and the knives and forks, the jeweller
and his daughter, the furrier and his wife, sat before the tall
chimney-piece draped with lambrequins of red serge and black fringes,
and were talking of trifles. Babette asked once or twice where
Christophe could be, and the father and mother of the young Huguenot
gave evasive answers; but when the two families were seated at table,
and the two servants had retired to the kitchen, Lecamus said to his
future daughter-in-law:--