"I beg your pardon, Madame."
There was no reply.
"Bite her, Rogue, you sacré pig of a zebra," he commanded, with mingled good humor and disgust showing in his voice as he, at the same time, stepped around the cart toward the cause of the disturbance.
As he approached, a rather disheveled young woman turned a tearful, laughing face toward him, and, not rising, cried somewhat trembly, yet merrily:
"Umbrellas to mend!... Umbrellas to mend!... Fine knacks for ladies. Within this pack are pins, points, laces, and gloves.... I am poet, pedler, and wandering troubadour. Fair ladies from their tears I rescue. A knight errant of the pack am I!"
Jean François threw up his hands in strong amazement, consternation upon every feature, and his tongue tied by surprise. A moment, that seemed to him as a nightmare in which he struggled in vain attempt for words, and then these expressions came with marvelous speed and versatility.
"Ventre de biche!... Sacré pig of a zebra!... By all the saints in paradise!" he cried with a hundred imprecations. Finally, as if exhausted, he asked rather meekly:
"From what star did you drop?... You little red-headed jade!"
Indeed it was Miss Nance Gwyn, about to cry, a little soiled and mussed, distractingly pretty, pointing a derisive finger as a baton, and shouting with laughter to the helpless and dumbfounded Jean François:
"Will you buy any tape,
Or lace for your cape,
My dainty duck, my dear-a?
Any silk, any thread,
Any toys for your head,
Of the new'st and finest, finest wear-a?
Come to the pedler,
Money's a meddler,
That doth utter all men's ware-a."