disagreeable to hear myself spoken of as an old man. Is a man old
at sixty-two? Only the other day, on the Pont des Arts, my colleague
Perrot d'Avrignac complimented me on my youthful appearance; and I
should think him a better authority about one's age than that young
chatterbox who has taken it on herself to make remarks about my
back. My back is round, she says. Ah! ah! I had some suspicion
myself to that effect, but I am not going now to believe it at all,
since it is the opinion of a giddy-headed young woman. Certainly
I will not turn my head round to see who it was that spoke; but I
am sure it was a pretty woman. Why? Because she talks like a
capricious person and like a spoiled child. Ugly women may be
naturally quite as capricious as pretty ones; but as they are never
petted and spoiled, and as no allowances are made for them, they
soon find themselves obliged either to suppress their whims or to
hide them. On the other hand, the pretty women can be just as
fantastical as they please. My neighbour is evidently one of the
latter.... But, after all, coming to think it over, she really
did nothing worse than to express, in her own way, a kindly thought
about me, for which I ought to feel grateful.

These reflections--include the last and decisive one--passed through
my mind in less than a second; and if I have taken a whole minute
to tell them, it is characteristic of most philologists. In less
than a second, therefore, after the voice had ceased, I did turn
round, and saw a pretty little woman--a sprightly brunette.

"Madame," I said, with a bow, "excuse my involuntary indiscretion.
I could not help overhearing what you have just said. You would
like to be of service to a poor old man. And the wish, Madame, has
already been fulfilled--the mere sound of a French voice has given