chin, and yet even I have sometimes done that! it may happen to the most skilful. But, I tell you again, Ambroisine is at the orders of none but the ladies of all ranks who choose to come to my establishment to take baths; and, frankly, that is more suitable. When I see her shaving a gentleman with the dexterity and self-possession which distinguish her, I am proud of my pupil! But, on the other hand, I am humiliated to see her do that work, and I say to myself: 'By Notre-Dame de Paris! this is no place for my daughter!'—Moreover, you have little hesitation in making gallant speeches to her, in saying obscene things.—However, I am not disturbed! If Ambroisine cares to laugh sometimes,—and in our profession one would be very foolish to be too surly,—she is well able none the less to keep in their place those who presume to take too many liberties. My daughter is a determined wench, I tell you; she has a hand as quick and a fist as solid as her father's! And woe to those who take the risk of having it proved to them!"

By such harangues did Master Hugonnet reply to the young men who displayed a too ardent desire to see his daughter. As a general rule, the students, the country gentlemen, and the simple esquires listened to reason; but it was not always so with the young nobles, who considered themselves at liberty to do anything, because they were received at court, and because the lieutenant of police closed his eyes too often to their escapades. When one of them had taken it into his head that he would see Ambroisine, all that the barber could say to convince him that that might not be was of no avail, and sometimes was received in bad part.

But although he was very glad to have noble customers, Master Hugonnet was not of a humor to endure the impertinences of any man whatsoever; the marquis, no less than the humble bachelor, felt the effects of his wrath. And when a young gentleman seemed disposed to take up his abode in his shop, saying:

"I will not go away until I have seen the fair Ambroisine!"

The barber would shout in stentorian tones:

"Well! you shall not see her, triple savonnette! there's no law to compel her to be at your beck and call!"

But the sonorous voice of Master Hugonnet would reach the ears of Ambroisine, who, divining from her father's tone that he was in a passion, would at once leave her work and run to the shop, to put an end to the dispute.

At sight of the girl, the person who had caused all the uproar would begin to laugh and would exclaim, with a bantering glance at the barber:

"I told you that I would not go away without a sight of the charming Ambroisine! I have succeeded, you see!"

Whereupon Master Hugonnet would look sheepish; but a word or two from his daughter would speedily allay his anger, and more than one among the witnesses of the scene would resolve to employ the same method when he wished to see La Belle Baigneuse.

Now that we are acquainted with Master Hugonnet's house and household, we must pay a visit to the establishment of another bath keeper, on Rue Dauphine. That street, which had been laid out twenty years earlier, on the site of the garden of the Augustinians and of the buildings of the Collège Saint-Denis, was already lined by fine houses, and had an air of refinement and a class of inhabitants in striking contrast to Quartier Saint-Jacques.

IV

BATHILDE

The baths on Rue Dauphine were kept by one Landry. He was a man of sixty, but still vigorous and robust, despite his gray moustache, which he wore very long. By his soldierly bearing and the way he carried his head, one could divine that he had seen military service. And Landry was, in fact, an ex-soldier. He had fought under Henri IV, whose name he never mentioned without carrying the back of his right hand to his forehead, or without manifesting his emotion by the change in his voice.

At the great king's death, Landry, then thirty-six years of age, had left the service. Later, although his face was scarred, his martial set-up and his military gait had fascinated Dame Ragonde, a widow with a small hoard. She had married Landry, and they had obtained, by purchase, a license to keep hot and cold baths.

Landry was a tall, thin, stiff individual. He had an uncommunicative air, and his long gray moustache tended to make his expression even less inviting. However, Master Landry was not a bad-tempered man. He had never been known to seek a quarrel with anyone; and when quarrels arose among his neighbors, it was usually he who intervened to restore peace. It is true that his voice was strong and that his moustache produced an imposing effect on the vulgar.

He performed his duties as bath keeper and barber with the scrupulous exactness which old soldiers retain in civil life with respect to everything that they consider a duty. But it was not wise to speak ill of Henri IV or of his minister Sully in the old soldier's presence. When such a thing occurred, a sudden change would take place in the whole aspect of the man; usually calm and cold, he would become as quick to explode as powder; his blood would boil anew with all the fervor of his younger days; and the unhappy wight who had presumed to utter a word derogatory to his idols would be chastised before he had time to apologize.

But such episodes were likely to be very infrequent, for the memory of good King Henri was held in too great veneration by Frenchmen for anyone to venture to impugn it.

Dame Ragonde, the bath keeper's wife, was fifteen years younger than her husband, but she seemed almost as old as he.

She was a tall, thin, yellow-skinned woman. Had she ever been pretty? That she had been seemed more than doubtful. Her small, pale-green eyes were very bright, but they had an arrogant—yes, evil expression; they were eyes of the sort that seem never to look in any direction with any other purpose than that of finding something to blame, to reprove, or to forbid. Her long nose, hooked at the end like a parrot's, made her resemble in some degree a bird of prey. And her thin, bloodless, tightly closed lips seemed destined to open only to emit harsh or bitter words.

Since the day of her marriage to Landry, her second husband, nobody remembered having seen Dame Ragonde smile; indeed, it was not certain that she smiled on that day.

Her voice was shrill and piercing, her words always short and sharp; this fact, by the way, was creditable to the lady; she was no gossip and never said a word more than she had to say.

Who would have guessed that of that union between a man who was not handsome and a woman who was downright ugly a daughter would be born who would prove to be a veritable model of beauty, grace, and charm?

Such, nevertheless, was Bathilde, the only child of Landry and Ragonde.

At eighteen, her beauty had reached its perfect development: she was one of those types which painters delight to find, when they wish to paint a virgin, an angel, or a demon of temptation.

Bathilde was blond, but the tint was not one of those dull blonds in which there is a reflection of white; her long, thick, silky hair verged rather on the chestnut. Her skin had that whiteness in which there is life, and not that dull tone which imparts an aspect of inanition to a living person. On the contrary, the lovely girl's cheeks had a rosy tinge; and at the slightest word of reproof that was addressed to her, they at once became a most brilliant carmine. Large, deep-blue eyes, almond shaped, and shaded by long chestnut lashes; a small, fresh, red-lipped mouth; irreproachable teeth of dazzling whiteness; a chin slightly oval in shape; fine, but clearly marked eyebrows; a noble, beautiful brow, over which thick curls seemed proud to be placed.

Such was Bathilde, who possessed, in addition, a slender, lithe, dainty figure, a remarkably small foot, and a hand worthy to