"Always? And has he sometimes spoken to you of his parents?--of his father?" "My faith, no; I don't believe he was born from the higher classes. In that matter I am infinitely before him; the Chaudoreilles are of very pure blood and have a stock which goes back to Noah. Under Charles the Bald one of my ancestors had himself shaved--" "What does it matter what your ancestors did? I was talking about the barber's family." "That's all right; but my friend Touquet has spoken very little to me about them. I believe he is from Lorraine and he has told me that he left his country very early and came very young to Paris, for it is only there that talent has a chance of success; also Touquet has made money, and me, thank God, I am--" Here Chaudoreille's eyes wandered over his doublet, which was stained in many places, and he covered it with his mantle, resuming,-- "I should be very rich if I had not ruined myself for women." Julia, who had paid little attention to this last phrase, said to herself,-- "He ought to be rich if he has helped the marquis in all his follies." "He is not married," resumed Chaudoreille, "although he could now find a good match. His house on the Rue des Bourdonnais is a very pretty property. Perhaps it's because of the little one that he doesn't marry; perhaps he is going to marry her, I shouldn't be surprised." "What little one," inquired Julia, curiously. "The young girl whom he has adopted and who is now sixteen years old." "The barber Touquet has adopted a child?" "Why, yes, of course he has. Why, if you know him, how is it that you are ignorant of that? That's certainly the best act of his life." "Touquet has done a good action," said Julia, smiling ironically; "I could not have imagined that, and is this young girl pretty?" "Hang it! is she pretty? Well, I believe you! She is one--but no," said Chaudoreille, correcting himself as if struck by a sudden remembrance, "she is not handsome at all; on the contrary, she is ugly, one might even say that she is disagreeable." "One minute you say she is pretty and the next you say she is very ugly; you don't seem to know what you are saying, Monsieur Chaudoreille." "One can easily lose his wits when near you, beautiful damsel; but, by that sword, I swear to you--" The bell at the garden gate was heard, Chaudoreille stopped; presuming that it was the marquis and that it would perhaps be dangerous for him to be surprised in a tete-a-tete with Julia, he escaped by the first pathway and ran to rejoin Marcel, while the young Italian listened anxiously and her cheeks assumed a more vivid color. Marcel opened the door, but it was not the marquis, it was Touquet, who came alone. "Your master fought a duel last night," said he to Marcel, "he was wounded, but very slightly, it seems. I have come to speak to the young girl. She is perhaps anxious to know what all this means. Where is she now?"