It was twelve o’clock when he rose and put the boots into his green bag, and gathering up his measure and some tools, set out once more. The streets were full and the cobbler made his way slowly through the throng. One or two spoke to him, others noticed him less than the mule that stood waiting for a reverend father outside the Garden of the Récollets. Le Bossu took little heed of it all; his face was drawn and haggard, and the hump seemed larger than ever. He walked on until he passed in front of the inn of the Golden Cup and came to a house a few yards beyond it. Here he knocked and was admitted by a man-servant who wore the uniform of a dragoon. The house had a long, narrow hall, and at the end of this was a flight of stairs, and up these le Bossu was conducted to the second story. Here the soldier opened a door to the right, and the cobbler entered a large room, lighted by three windows, where M. de Baudri sat eating his breakfast. Charlot made his salutation, and putting his bag in the corner, patiently waited the pleasure of his patron. De Baudri noticed him as little as he would have noticed a rat or a mouse, and finished his meal before he even glanced in his direction. Finally, however, he pushed back his chair and called the shoemaker. “_Viens donc_, Petit Bossu,” he said, “are the boots finished?” Charlot took them out of his bag without a word, and displayed them. “_Sacristi!_ if I had four legs I should come to you for boots,” M. de Baudri remarked, inspecting them. “_Diable!_ those buckles are too small.” “The latest from Paris, monsieur,” le Bossu replied; “his Majesty has a pair of the same size and design.” M. de Baudri’s face relaxed, and he thrust out one foot. “Try them, Bossu,” he said; “and see that they are good,” he added with a smile, “for I expect to wear them at my wedding.” A strange expression crossed the drawn face of the hunchback, as he knelt to put on the boot. “Monsieur expects to be married soon?” he asked quietly. “_Dame de Dieu_, I do not know!” de Baudri exclaimed with a laugh; “my little white bird likes to use her wings, but--I mean to clip them.” Le Bossu smoothed the leather on the officer’s ankle, and arranged the buckle, his head bent low over his work. “Monsieur plans for an early marriage, then?” he ventured again. M. de Baudri stared at him. “_Au diable!_” he said harshly; “what is it to you, worm?” The cobbler made no reply; he was accustomed to such language from his patrons. He had put both boots on M. de Baudri’s feet, and he sat back now on his own heels, looking at his work. “Is monsieur satisfied?” he asked meekly. The officer stood up, looking down at his feet. “Very good,” he said at last, “they will do; but make your bill small, you little beggar, or you will see that I know how to use them!” and he laughed coarsely as he sat down and waited for Charlot to remove the boots and put on his others, which the hunchback began to do.