"The Lord above knows, for I don't; only they kick up the devil's own row with them, whatever they are. And then such whiffs of sulphur, charcoal, and melted lead, as you go up the stairs; and blow, blow, blow, like a smith's forge. I verily believe Mother Burette has dealings with the old one, and practises magic in this private apartment; leastways, that is what M. César Bradamanti, our third-floor lodger, said to me. A very clever individual is M. César. When I say an 'individual,' I mean an Italian, though he speaks as good French as you or me, excepting his accent, and that is nothing. Oh, he is very clever, indeed! knows all about physic; and pulls out teeth, not for the sake of the money but the honour of his profession,--yes, really, sir, for downright honour. Now, suppose you had six decayed teeth,--and he says the same thing to all who choose to listen to him,--well, then he will take out five for nothing, and only charge you for the sixth. Besides which, he sells all manner of remedies for all sorts of complaints,--diseases of the lungs, coughs, colds, every complaint you can name; but then he makes his own drugs, and he has for his assistant the son of our principal lessee, little Tortillard. He says that his master is going to buy himself a horse and a red coat, and to sell his drugs in the market-places, and that young Tortillard is to be dressed like a page and be at the drum, to attract customers." "This seems to me a very humble occupation for the son of your principal lessee." "Why, his father says unless he gets a pretty strong hand over him, and a tolerably powerful taste of whipcord, in the way of a sound thrashing, every now and then, he is safe to come to the scaffold. And he is about the ugliest, most spiteful, ill-disposed young rascal one would wish to meet: he has played more than one abominable trick upon poor M. César Bradamanti, who is the best creature possible; for he cured Alfred of a rheumatic attack, and I promise you we have not forgotten it. Yet there are some people wicked enough to--But no, I will not tell you: it would make the hair of your head stand on end. As Alfred says, if it were true, it would send him to the galleys." "Why, what do they accuse him of?" "Oh, I really cannot tell you! I can't, indeed; for it is so--" "Then we will drop the subject." "And to say such things of a young man! Upon my life and soul, it is too bad." "Pray, Madame Pipelet, do not give yourself the trouble of saying any more about it: let us speak of other matters." "Why, I don't know but, as you are to live in the house, it is only fair and right to prepare you for any falsehoods you may hear. I suppose you are sufficiently well off to make the acquaintance of M. César Bradamanti, and unless you are put on your guard against these reports, they might lead to your breaking off with him. So, just put your ear down and I'll whisper what it is people say about him."