His popularity was chiefly with the village wenches. They would gather about him at the fountains, and pay their sous open-eyed to be expounded; or singly they would withdraw him into nooks or private places if the case was serious.
“Citizen seër,” says Margot, “I dreamed I fell and was wounded.”
“That is good, little minette. Thou wilt pay me five sous for a fond lover.”
“Citizen seër, I dreamed I was eating of a great egg.”
“And thou shalt shortly beget a male child that shall bring thee honour.”
“How now, old Jackalent!”
There rises a shrill cackle of laughter.
“Fi donc, Margot! On te le rendra de bonne heure!”
To submit the commerce of love to the test of a little dream-manual he carried about with him, that was Quatremains’ system. This key (it was in manuscript) interpreted on a couple of hundred, or more, words, from Abel to Wounds; but affairs of the heart predominated through the whole alphabet of nonsense. He would coach himself continually from it in secret; but indeed a small wit and a trifle of invention were all that was needed. Now and again I would rally him on this petty taxing of credulity.
“How now!” he would answer. “Art thou not yet convinced?”