At this moment, a postman entered the shop, and delivered a letter to the
greengrocer, saying: "For M. Charlemagne, post-paid!"

"My!" said Rose-Pompon; "it is for the little mysterious old man, who has
such extraordinary ways. Does it come from far?"

"I believe you; it comes from Italy, from Rome," said Ninny Moulin,
looking in his turn at the letter, which the greengrocer held in her
hand. "Who is the astonishing little old man of whom you speak?"

"Just imagine to yourself, my great apostle," said Rose-Pompon, "a little
old man, who has two rooms at the bottom of that court. He never sleeps
there, but comes from time to time, and shuts himself up for hours,
without ever allowing any one to enter his lodging, and without any one
knowing what he does there."

"He is a conspirator," said Ninny Moulin, laughing, "or else a comer."

"Poor dear man," said Mother Arsene, "what has he done with his false
money? He pays me always in sous for the bit of bread and the radish I
furnish him for his breakfast."

"And what is the name of this mysterious chap?" asked Dumoulin.

"M. Charlemagne," said the greengrocer. "But look, surely one speaks of
the devil, one is sure to see his horns."

"Where's the horns?"

"There, by the side of the house--that little old man, who walks with his