"I've told you what all the world knows,--that I have sheltered Blanche since she had been left an orphan at my house, and that I know no more than anyone else about her father or her family. She is now grown up and pretty. Lovers will begin to come; that's what vexes me. They'll seek to learn everything about this young girl, and assuredly they won't know more about it than I am telling you. The one who was singing just now is known to me; he came into my shop this morning, and stayed two hours, in the hope that Blanche would appear. Do you hear me, Chaudoreille?" "I hear you--if you wish me to," said the chevalier, continuing to rub his doublet; "for I don't know if I should or if I should not hear you. That shall be as you wish." "I wish you weren't quite so foolish," said the barber, glancing scornfully at his neighbor. "No words of double meaning," answered Chaudoreille; "you know I don't like them. This cursed wine stains, and for the moment I don't know where to get another doublet." "He's a mere child, a scholar, who has not yet a beard on his chin," said the barber after a moment's silence, which was only interrupted by the rubbing of the handkerchief on the spots impregnated by wine. "He shows the small experience he has had in love intrigues by coming to sing before my door--in order to let me know who was there. The poor boy has much need of a lesson." "He certainly is not first-rate at the guitar.". "I don't believe that he can be known to Blanche. No--but that romance he was singing,--it's precisely the same as the one she mentioned to me,-- My darling is all to me." "That doesn't equal-- Thou hast lost thy fond dove too. Zounds! what a difference in the melody!" "No, Blanche is candor itself; she would not have spoken to me of that romance had she known the young man. Why the devil haven't you taught her something else besides that old rubbish of Louis the Twelfth's time? If you had taught her to sing something pretty she would not have been enraptured at the first romance sung by wandering minstrels." "What do you say? Are you talking to me?" said Chaudoreille, raising his head. "Of course I am, since you call yourself a professor of singing." "My dear Touquet, listen well to what I am going to say: I don't tease you about your method of shaving beards, and don't you meddle with my way of teaching music. Each one to his own trade. You know the proverb. I teach my pupils nothing but masterpieces, and I'm not going to cram their heads with the little gurglings of those miserable clowns who travel from Naples here singing the same roulade." "It's vexatious, then, that the young girls prefer these roulades to your masterpieces. You gave Blanche a music lesson this morning, and she tells me that you have wearied her with your villanelle."