"He would have died if you had brought him here in a carriage. He had aneurism of the heart, the doctor says. He might have died any moment the last ten years. How old was he?" "Seventy, eighty, ninety--how should I know?" "But he was your grandfather." "Ah, no, indeed, Monsieur," she replied in a more animated manner. "He was not a relative. My mother was poor and she sold me to him three years ago." "Why that is like me, Master!" I cried, vastly interested. "My son," said he in English, "that is one of the things that must be forgotten. And then, Mademoiselle?" he asked in French. "Then he taught me to play the zither and to dance. I am sorry he is dead. _Dame, oui, par exemple!_ But I do not weep for him as for a grandfather. Oh, no!" "And your mother?" "She died last year. So I am all alone." He asked her what she thought of doing for her livelihood. She shrugged her shoulders with the resignation of her class. "I can always earn my living. There are brasseries, cafés-concerts in all the towns--I am fairly well known. They will give me an engagement. _Il faut passer par là comme les autres._" "You must go through it like the others?" repeated my master. "But you are very young, my poor child." "I am eighteen, Monsieur, I know I shall not make a fortune. I am not pretty enough even when I paint, and my figure is heavy. That is what Père Paragot used to complain of." "What was his name?" asked my master, pricking up his ears. "Berzélius Paragot--and he took the name of Nibbidard, which means 'no luck'--so he loved to call himself Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot." "Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot," mouthed my master joyously. "I would give anything for a name like that!" "It is yours if you like to take it," she said quite seriously. "No one will want it any more." "Little Asticot of my heart," said he, "what do you think of it?" It struck me as a most aristocratically romantic appellation. I was used to his aliases by this time. He had long ceased to call himself "Pradel," and what was our surname for the moment I am now unable to recollect. "You look like 'Paragot,' Master," said I, and, in an inexplicable way, he did--as I have before remarked. He called me a psychometrical genius and enquired the name of the young lady. "Amélie Duprat, Monsieur," she said. "But _pour le métier_--we must have professional names for the cafés--Père Paragot called me 'Blanquette de Veau.'" "Delicious!" cried he. "So everyone calls me Blanquette," she explained gravely. There was a silence. Paragot--he really assumed the name from this moment--refilled his pipe. The belated peasants, having finished their wine, clattered out of the café, and took off their hats as they passed us. "Life is very hard, is it not, Messieurs?" remarked Blanquette. It seemed to be her favourite philosophic proposition. She sighed. "If Père Paragot had only lived to play at the wedding tomorrow!" "What then?" "I should have had ten francs." "Ah!" said my master.