It was the outcries of the concierge and the little Auvergnat, blended with roars of laughter from Mademoiselle Arthémise, that had brought all the tenants to their windows. To add to the uproar, Monsieur Renardin appeared at that moment, uneasy because his messenger had not returned, and curious to know how the pretty shirtmaker had received his gift. The bachelor was horrified when he saw the little Auvergnat on all fours, looking for the piece of quince, which had fallen to the ground; the concierge yelling and cursing as he removed the apricot from his eye, piece by piece; and lastly, the maid of all work, stuffing herself with candied fruit and saying: "It's mighty good, all the same! I never tasted it before, but I'll make him give me some now." "What does this mean, Arthémise? What are you doing here in the courtyard, instead of attending to your dinner?" inquired Monsieur Renardin, with a frown. "My dinner! Deuce take the dinner! it can take care of itself. I'm having a treat, I am! I'm eating candied cherries and pears! I say, monsieur, when you go about it, you send nice presents to young ladies! But you'd better choose a page who ain't quite so stupid as this one; he took me for the hussy of the entresol. Oh, my! I didn't say anything; I just took the box." "What's that? you little rascal! is this the way you do errands?" "No, monsieur; it wasn't my fault. Why wouldn't the concierge let me in?" "I did my duty; this Savoyard's a fool, and I was just going to send him to the entresol when Mademoiselle Arthémise told him she was Mademoiselle Georgette, and that the box was for her." "What, Arthémise! you dared----" "Hoity-toity! why should I have hesitated? This little brat brings a box from you--of course, I thought it was for me. As if I could suppose that a man of your age would pay court to young girls! that he'd lay out money for the first pert-faced minx that perches in the house! that he'd send boxes of candied fruit to a new-comer, a shirtmaker, when he growls every day because, as he says, I put too much butter in a sauce that----" "Enough, mademoiselle! that will do; come with me, and we will have an explanation upstairs. I don't choose to have the whole house know what goes on in my establishment." And Monsieur Renardin walked hastily toward the stairs, not daring to look at the windows of the entresol. Mademoiselle Arthémise followed her master, making faces behind his back; she still had the box of candied fruit in her hand, and she called out to the concierge, laughing in his face: "I don't care a snap of my finger! I always get the good things. As for monsieur, as he don't like bread soup, he can make up his mind to eat nothing else for a week!" "If my eye is injured, mademoiselle," said the concierge, "you'll have to pay the doctor!" "Count on it, my dear man; apply to Monsieur Renardin; he's the cause of it all! He's an old rake, and nothing else!"