"Ah! he is a poor boy," she replied; the whole expression of her countenance softening at his name, and her sallow cheeks crimsoning with a tender flush. "He is lame; he cannot walk, and is pulled about in a little carriage; but he does not like to beg, so Emile will not take him out with us."
"Is Emile his father?" I asked.
"No, monsieur; his father is dead but his mother is Emile's wife. I take care of Jean myself."
"Are they good to you?"
"Yes, pretty well. You see I dance for them, and people give more money because I am there; and then Mouton is so clever; one does not easily meet with a dog like that, who will stand on his hind-legs for an hour together, and dance as he does. Look at his dress too;" and she pulled out of the bosom of her frock Mouton's paraphernalia, and displayed it with evident pride. "In my opinion now, there is no such dress as that for a dog in all Paris," she said, as she held it up admiringly to the lamp. "Jean made those shoes; ar'n't they droll? And the wig; look, that is superb!"
"Who made the wig?" I asked.
"Ah! it was a little boy who is apprenticed to a wigmaker," she answered. "Monsieur, it was a bargain between us; he wanted something from me, and—and I said I would give it him if he made a wig for Mouton; and this is the wig. He is not bad himself, that little boy; but he is not at all so good as Jean."
"How old is Jean?" I asked.
"He is twelve years old, monsieur."
"And you?"