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M. Marteau was no ordinary shopkeeper. The various distinguished people who had fingered his clavecins, and turned over the folios of music, for half a century past, had left their memories behind them; M. de Voltaire, for instance, who had caressed the head of Phlipote with an aged, skeleton hand, leaving, apparently, no very agreeable impression on the child, though her father delighted to recall the incident, being himself a demi-philosophe.
The young man took the tiny hand of his friend, pressing it in his own. "'The woman I adore is Mademoiselle Guimard! "'What! Guimard of the Opera? the fiancée of Despréaux?" Claude still held the hands of Phlipote, who was trembling now, and almost on fire at the story of this ambitious love. In return she reveals her own. It was Good Friday.
The relations of the husband to his affectionate, satiric, pleasure-seeking wife, who knew so well all the eighteen theatres which then existed in Paris, are treated with much quiet humour. On Sundays the four set forth together for a country holiday. At such times Phlipote would walk half-a-dozen paces in advance of her father and mother, side by side with her intended.
But in one of the handsomest of the Chevaliers I felt sure I recognized the stranger who helped us at the Sainte Chapelle, and was so gallant with you." Phlipote did not laugh. "You are deceived, mother!" she said in a faint voice. "Pardi!" cries the father. "'Tis what I always say. Your stranger was some young fellow from a shop."
"'Tis but to teach you what I would do were she here." They were a little troubled by this adventure. And the next day was a memorable one. By the kind contrivance of Phlipote herself, Claude gains the much-desired access to the object of his affections, but to his immense disillusion. If he could but speak to her, he fancies he should find the courage, the skill, to bend her.
Now, when I know you can't bear me, I shall be nicely in love with you. The soft warmth of her arm seemed to pass through Claude, and gave him strange sensations. He resumed naïvely, 'Yes! and how odd it is after all that I am not in love with you. You are so pretty! Phlipote raised her finger coquettishly, 'No compliments, monsieur.
"'Phlipote, you've a better heart than I! This morning I saw a gentleman, who resembled point by point your description of the unknown at the Sainte Chapelle, prowling about our shop. "'And you didn't tell me! "Claude hung his head. "'But why not? the young girl asks imperiously. 'Why not? "'In truth I could hardly say, hardly understand, myself. Do you forgive me, Phlipote?
"'Holloa!'cries the loud voice of Christopher Marteau. 'What are you doing out there? "The young people arose. Phlipote linked her arm gaily in that of Claude. 'How contented I feel! she says; 'how good it is to have a friend to have you whom I used to detest, because I thought you were in love with me.
The press was so great that the parents were separated from the young people. Claude, however, at the side of Phlipote, realized the ideal of a faithful and jealous guardian. The hallebardes of the Suisses rang on the marble pavement of the gallery.
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