"Very well, make up the account; write a letter to the Queen. I must be off this moment, or dreadful things will happen." "Be off? But how?" "I will buy a horse.--Write, for God's sake!" "Here! Mother! Give your boy some money," the furrier called out to his wife. She came in, flew to her chest, and gave a purse to Christophe, who excitedly kissed her. "The account was ready," said his father; "here it is. I will write the letter." Christophe took the bill and put it in his pocket. "But at any rate you will sup with us," said the goodman. "In this extremity you and the Lallier girl must exchange rings." "Well, I will go to fetch her," cried Christophe. The young man feared some indecision in his father, whose character he did not thoroughly appreciate; he went up to his room, dressed, took out a small trunk, stole downstairs, and placed it with his cloak and rapier under a counter in the shop. "What the devil are you about?" asked his father, hearing him there. "I do not want any one to see my preparations for leaving; I have put everything under the counter," he whispered in reply. "And here is the letter," said his father. Christophe took the paper, and went out as if to fetch their neighbor. A few moments after Christophe had gone out, old Lallier and his daughter came in, preceded by a woman-servant carrying three bottles of old wine. "Well, and where is Christophe?" asked the furrier and his wife. "Christophe?" said Babette; "we have not seen him." "A pretty rogue is my son!" cried Lecamus. "He tricks me as if I had no beard. Why, old gossip, what will come to us? We live in times when the children are all too clever for their fathers!" "But he has long been regarded by all the neighbors as a mad follower of Colas," said Lallier. "Defend him stoutly on that score," said the furrier to the goldsmith. "Youth is foolish, and runs after anything new; but Babette will keep him quiet, she is even newer than Calvin." Babette smiled. She truly loved Christophe, was affronted by everything that was ever said against him. She was a girl of the good old middle-class type, brought up under her mother's eye, for she had never left her; her demeanor was as gentle and precise as her features; she was dressed in stuff of harmonious tones of gray; her ruff, plainly pleated, was a contrast by its whiteness to her sober gown; on her head was a black velvet cap, like a child's hood in shape, but trimmed, on each side of her face, with frills and ends of tan-colored gauze. Though she was fair-haired, with a white skin, she seemed cunning and crafty, though trying to hide her wiliness under the expression of a simple and honest girl.