The air was a little nipping, for the season was severe; but a lover always believes it is springtime. Delighted by the idea Urbain went home to get his guitar, and waited impatiently, until the streets should be deserted, to go and serenade a woman whom he did not know. This Spanish custom was then much in fashion in France. There are still some little towns where it is preserved, and where one may hear between ten and eleven o'clock sentimental songs accompanied by the guitar; but in the great capitals it is only the blind and the organ-grinders who sing love in the streets. The hour propitious to lovers having arrived, Urbain went to the Rue des Bourdonnais; he had easily recognized the barber's house, having specially noted it in the morning; a feeble light which shone between the curtains of Blanche's window seemed to indicate that the young girl was not yet sleeping, and, without reflecting that the other dwellers in the house would hear him, Urbain had sung with the most tender expression he could put in his voice. We have seen what followed on this imprudence. At the sound of bolts being drawn, the young man softly departed, and, hiding at the entrance of the Rue des Mauvaises-Paroles, he heard the threats and the swearing of Touquet. "He's escaped," said the barber, reentering the lower room and angrily throwing his sword on the table. These words seemed to break the charm which held Rolande in his scabbard; and Chaudoreille, drawing his sword suddenly, and making it flash in the air, ran precipitately into the shop, crying,-- "And now, master singers, I'll let you see something fierce." "Don't I tell you there's no one there," repeated Touquet, while Chaudoreille appeared to wish to draw the bolts of the door. "I made too much noise; the rascal heard me and ran off." "Are you quite certain there's nobody there?" said Chaudoreille, still brandishing his sword. "Yes, quite sure." "I have a great inclination to go into the street and satisfy myself as to that." "Do as you please about it; you are your own master." "No; on reflection, I believe that would be a blunder; they may perhaps come back; it will be better to let them approach without fear; then we can fell suddenly upon them, and give them no quarter." So saying, the chevalier put Rolande into the scabbard and returned to the lower room, where he seated himself before the fire and again filled his cup with wine, which he swallowed at one draught, to cool--so he said--his anger. The barber strode up and down; he was strongly agitated, and appeared to have forgotten the presence of Chaudoreille, as he murmured at intervals in a gloomy voice,--