“Come and have a drink?” asked the scholar.

This proposal calmed the young soldier.

“With all my heart, but I’ve no money.”

“But I have.”

“Nonsense! let’s see.”

With an air of good-natured superiority Jehan displayed the purse before his friend’s eyes.

Meanwhile the Archdeacon, leaving Charmolue standing gaping, had approached the two and stopped a few paces off, observing them without their noticing him, so absorbed were they in examining the contents of the purse.

“A purse in your pocket, Jehan!” exclaimed Phœbus, “why, ’tis the moon in a pail of water— one sees it, but it is not there, it is only the reflection. Par Dieu! I’ll wager it’s full of pebbles!”

“These are the pebbles with which I pave my breeches pockets,” answered Jehan coldly; and without further wasting of words he emptied the purse on a corner-stone near by, with the air of a Roman saving his country.

“As I live!” muttered Phœbus, “targes! grands blancs! petits blancs! deniers parisis! and real eagle pieces! ’Tis enough to stagger one!”

Jehan preserved his dignified and impassive air. A few liards had rolled into the mud; the captain in his enthusiasm stooped to pick them up. But Jehan restrained him.

“Fie, Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers!”

Phœbus counted the money, and turning solemnly to Jehan: “Do you know, Jehan,” said he, “that there are twenty-three sous parisis here? Whom did you rob last night in the Rue Coupe-Gueule?”

Jehan tossed his curly head. “How if one has a brother,” he said, narrowing his eyes as if in scorn, “an archdeacon and a simpleton?”

“Corne de Dieu!” cried Phœbus, “the worthy man!”

“Let’s go and drink,” said Jehan.

“Where shall we go?” said Phœbus, “to the Pomme d’Eve?”

“No, captain, let’s go to the Vieille-Science.”

“A fig for your Vieille-Science, Jehan! the wine is better at the Pomme d’Eve; besides, there’s a vine at the door that cheers me while I drink.”

“Very well, then— here goes for Eve and her apple,” said the scholar, taking Phœbus by the arm. “By-the- bye, my dear captain, you spoke just now of the Rue Coupe-Gueule.¹ That is very grossly said; we are not so barbarous now— we call it Rue Coupe-Gorge.”²

The two friends turned their steps towards the Pomme d’Eve. Needless to say they first gathered up the money, and the Archdeacon followed them.

Followed them with a haggard and gloomy countenance. Was this the Phœbus whose accursed name, since his interview with Gringoire, had mingled with his every thought? He did not know, but at any