She passed the rest of the day, therefore, untouched by D'Alvimar's gallant hints; and it seemed to her that, by giving her dagger to the marquis as the pledge of a generous affection, she had rid herself of something that had disturbed her and burned her hands. She took pains not to be left alone with the Spaniard, and not to encourage any of the efforts he made to lead the conversation back to the delicate commonplaces of love. Moreover, all private conversation was interrupted and the attention of the whole party diverted by a strange incident. A young gypsy appeared and requested permission to entertain the illustrious company by his accomplishments; I believe that the rascal said "his genius." He had no sooner made his appearance than D'Alvimar recognized the young vagabond who had served as interpreter between Monsieur D'Ars and the Moorish woman on the moor of Champillé, and who had declared that he was French by birth and that his name was La Flèche. He was a young man of some twenty years, with a handsome face, although it already showed the ravages of debauchery. His eye was keen and insolent; his lips flat and treacherous; his speech conceited, impudent and satirical; he was short of stature, but well-formed, as active with his body as a pantomimist, and with his hands as a thief; intelligent in everything that is serviceable in evil-doing; stupid in respect to any useful work or any sound reasoning. Like all of his profession, he possessed a few rags in addition to what he wore, and these he used as a costume in which to perform his tricks. He made his appearance dressed in a sort of Genoese cloak lined with red; on his head one of those hats bristling with cocks' feathers, hats without name or shape or excuse for being; pretentious yet despairing ruins, whose gorgeous improbability Callot has immortalized in his Italian grotesques. Short, slashed boots, one much too large, the other much too small for his foot, disclosed stockings once red, now faded to the hue of wine lees. An enormous scapulary covered the miscreant's breast, a safeguard against the charge of paganism and sorcery that was constantly hanging over his head. Lustreless light hair, of absurd length, fell over his lean face, aflame with red ochre, and an incipient moustache joined two patches of downy white hair planted under his smooth and glistening chin. He began in a voice like a cracked trumpet: