“I’m shrewder than you, my dear man,” said an old candy woman; “I’ve got a talisman.”
“A talisman!”
“Yes, it’s a fact; a fortune-teller told me the secret.”
“What is it?” shouted all the gossips at once.
“A bit of clean parchment, with letters written on it with my blood.”
“Mon Dieu! that’s worse than the play at the Ambigu.—Tell us, what do your letters say?”
“Faith! I don’t know; they’re Hebrew, so she said.”
“Look out, Javotte! don’t trust it; it may be an invention of the devil, and then you’ll go straight to hell with your talisman.”
“Bah! I ain’t afraid, and I won’t let go of my little parchment. I’m a philosopher!”
“What a fool she is with her talisman!” said the gossips, when Javotte had gone. “It beats the devil what luck it brings her! She owes everybody in the quarter, and she can’t pay.—But it’s almost market time, and I haven’t put out my goods.”