without its results. Without being superstitious, I know not why, I have always followed these inspirations; I put my wardrobe in requisition, and, after having suited myself so as not to bear any appearance of being a greenhorn, I left my house with another secret agent, named Riboulet, a downy cove, (arsouille consommé,) whom all the houris of the boozing ken (quinche) claimed as their chevalier, as did also the milliners' girls, who considered him as a complete kiddy. For such an excursion, a woman was an indispensable portion of the baggage, and Riboulet had one who just suited us; she passed as his mistress, and was a common woman, called Manon la Blonde, on whom he assured me that reliance could be placed. In two seconds she rent her woollen stockings in twenty places, tore the edges of her red cloak, begrimed her shawl, trod her shoes down at heel, dishevelled her locks, and gave to the kerchief with which she graced her brows that indescribable appearance which was necessary. She was highly delighted with the character she had to perform.
Thus attired and prepared, we set out together, arm-in-arm, towards la Courtille. On reaching the cabaret, we seated ourselves at a table in the corner, that we might the more easily watch whatever should pass. Riboulet was one of those men whose very appearance commanded instant attention: he had not spoken nor had I, but yet we were instantly attended to.
"You see," said he, "the cove knows the time o'day, the lush (wine), meat, and salad."
I asked if we could not have a matelote of eels.
"Snakes," cried Manon, "do you want; cag-mag and snivellers (stinking meat and onions) would be as good."
I said no more, and we began to eat with as much appetite as if we had never been initiated into the mysteries of papa Guillotines cookery.
During the repast, a noise at the door attracted our attention. It proceeded from some conquerors who made their triumphal entry: men and women six in
