"There is nothing else," said Nicholas, coming to the bottom of the box.
"Now, let us put everything away," said the widow.
"I shall keep this shawl for myself," exclaimed Calabash.
"Oh, you will, will you?" cried Nicholas, roughly; "that depends whether I choose to let you or not. You are always laying your clutches on something or other; you are Madame Free-and-Easy!"
"You are so mighty particular yourself—about taking whatever you have a fancy to, arn't you?"
"Ah, that's as different as different can be! I filch at the risk of my life; and if I had happened to have been nabbed on board the barge, you would not have been trounced for it."
"La! Well, don't make such a fuss,—take your shawl! I'm sure I don't want it; I was only joking about it," continued Calabash, flinging the shawl back into the box; "but you never can stand the least bit of fun."
"Oh, I don't speak because of the shawl; I am not stingy enough to squabble about a trumpery shawl. One more or less would make no difference in the price Mother Burette would give for the things; she buys in the lump, you know," continued Nicholas; "only I consider that, instead of calling out you should keep the shawl, it would have been more decent to have asked me to give it you. There—there it is—keep it—you may have it; keep it, I say, or else I'll just fling it into the fire to make the pot boil."
These words entirely appeased Calabash, who forthwith accepted the shawl without further scruple.
Nicholas appeared seized with a sudden fit of generosity, for, ripping off the fag end from one of the pieces of silk, he contrived to separate two silk handkerchiefs, which he threw to Amandine and François, who had been contemplating them with longing looks, saying: