"Now, all that you have to do is to try to please Mignonne; but even in that you must act with great circumspection, and, above all, with patience! That young woman, engrossed as she is with thoughts of her daughter, would take fright at a single word of love. You will need time to touch her heart. You must gain her confidence. In short, I cannot undertake to say that you will win her love; that is your affair; for you understand that I cannot intervene. I know enough of Mignonne's temperament to be sure that that would be no way to succeed with her." "Oh! never fear, Charles; I am very reserved, very shy. I will wait, I will wait as long as it's necessary. The hope of winning her some day will give me courage. I am going to read a lot; to try to educate myself, and to be less awkward in my talk; for she talks mighty well, and she has a very distinguished air. You'll see, Charles, you'll see! You will be better satisfied than ever with me!" Ballangier left me, drunk with joy. I prayed that he might be happy in his love, and determined that I would do all that lay in my power to help him. I had just left him, and was walking along, musing upon what he had said to me, when someone halted in front of me. It was Dumouton, the debt-ridden man of letters. He had no umbrellas this time, but he carried under his left arm an oval box, of bronzed tin, which seemed to be carefully fastened. "Bonjour, Monsieur Rochebrune! I recognized you at a distance. You didn't see me, for you were lost in thought. Are you pretty well?" "Very well, thanks, Monsieur Dumouton." "Were you thinking out the plot of a play? You seemed very much preoccupied." "Oh, no! I don't write plays, myself." "You are very wise! It's a wretched trade since so many people have begun to dabble in it." I attempted to salute Monsieur Dumouton and leave him; but he detained me, saying with an embarrassed air: "I beg pardon! I would like to say another word to you, as I have happened to meet you. It's like this. First of all, you must know that one of my children is sick; he's been--out of sorts for a week. And then, we were without a certain household utensil--mon Dieu! why not say it at once--a syringe! We needn't be more prudish than Molière, need we?" "Surely not; you are perfectly justified in saying a syringe." "So I said to my wife: 'We must have a syringe!'--'Buy one,' said she. Very good! that's what I did this morning. I bought a _clyso-pompe_ with a constant flow--a new invention. It's exceedingly convenient; it comes in a box; this is it that I have under my arm. Who'd ever suspect there was a syringe in it? It might be lace, or prunes." "Or even a pie." "You are right; there are pies of this shape. And it's so easy to use; no one has any idea what it is. Why, you can even use it at the theatre, in a box. I know a lady who made a bet that she'd do it at the opera, during a ballet; she won her bet." "Did she have witnesses?" "Probably."