"Who ever heard of a magistrate having the cheek to give advice! For God's sake, ain't we old enough to know how to behave? what's all this talk about liberty, anyway? He'd better attend to making cabs move on, and leave us alone!" "He seems to have a high opinion of Paul," said Sans-Cravate. Jean Ficelle pursed up his lips, cast a sidelong glance at his companion, and rejoined: "Do you know, that gives me a curious idea?" "What is it?" "That Paul may be a spy; and that it was him who had Laboussole arrested last night." "Shut up, Jean Ficelle! don't insult our mate. It's an infernal shame for you to say that!" "I may not be wrong; ain't there something queer in the way Paul acts? Didn't Laboussole say he'd met him all dressed up--like a regular swell?" "You dare to tell me what Laboussole said--a thief!" "What does that prove? A man may steal, and still have good eyes; indeed, he's all the more likely to; and then, one day, in the Marais, I thought myself that I recognized Paul in a man dressed like a rich bourgeois; I'm sure now that I wasn't mistaken. If he disguises himself like that, he must have more trades than one. He's a sham messenger, and I go back to my idea: he's a spy!" "Once more, Jean Ficelle, I forbid you to say such things!" "But you can't keep me from thinking 'em; ideas are free, like opinions;--a man can't be prevented from having his own opinions and ideas!" Sans-Cravate made no further reply. They arrived at their stand, but Paul was not there. Jean Ficelle cast a bantering glance at his comrade, saying: "He seems to be having a famous spree to-day, does the magistrate's pet!" Again Sans-Cravate made no reply; but he clenched his fists, and it was evident that he had difficulty in restraining the feelings which agitated him. More than an hour had passed, when Bastringuette appeared on the boulevard. She had no tray, and was dressed in her best clothes: cap with broad ribbons, merino shawl, and black silk apron. She glanced at the messengers out of the corner of her eye as she passed. Sans-Cravate quickly turned his head and walked away. But Jean Ficelle ran after the flower girl and accosted her: "Ah! bless my soul! how natty we are! Where can we be going in such a rig? to a wedding, at the very least! it can't be less than that." "_Dame!_ perhaps that's what it is," retorted Bastringuette, assuming a very sportive air. "Perhaps I'm going to be married myself, nobody knows! Husbands are always on hand!" She walked on without another word. Jean Ficelle returned to Sans-Cravate, glanced at him, and said nothing. But Sans-Cravate could not contain himself; a moment later, he cried: "What did she say? Where's she going? Why don't you speak?" "She seemed to be as gay as a lark. She said that perhaps she was going to be married. You understand the riddle? She'll be married in the thirteenth arrondissement."[G] Sans-Cravate hesitated a moment; then, having made up his mind what to do, he said: