the show-bottles in the window, trying to give his pleasant visage
the fierce and satanic expression of Robert the Devil. Hardly would
he fall into position before the whole audience would be shuddering
with the foreboding that something uncommon was at hand. After
a hush, old Madame Bezuquet would commence to her own
accompaniment:

"Robert, my love is thine!
To thee I my faith did plight,
Thou seest my affright, --
Mercy for thine own sake,
And mercy for mine!"

In an undertone she would add: "Now, then, Tartarin!" Whereupon
Tartarin of Tarascon, with crooked arms, clenched fists, and
quivering nostrils, would roar three times in a formidable voice,
rolling like a thunderclap in the bowels of the instrument:

"No! no! no!" which, like the thorough southerner he was, he
pronounced nasally as "Naw! naw! naw!" Then would old Madame
Bezuquet again sing:

"Mercy for thine own sake,
And mercy for mine!"

"Naw! naw! naw!" bellowed Tartarin at his loudest, and there the
gem ended.

Not long, you see; but it was so handsomely voiced forth, so clearly
gesticulated, and so diabolical, that a tremor of terror overran the