It struck me as a most aristocratically romantic appellation. I was used to his aliases by this time. He had long ceased to call himself "Pradel," and what was our surname for the moment I am now unable to recollect.
"You look like 'Paragot,' Master," said I, and, in an inexplicable way, he did—as I have before remarked. He called me a psychometrical genius and enquired the name of the young lady.
"Amélie Duprat, Monsieur," she said. "But pour le métier—we must have professional names for the cafés—Père Paragot called me 'Blanquette de Veau.'"
"Delicious!" cried he.
"So everyone calls me Blanquette," she explained gravely. There was a silence. Paragot—he really assumed the name from this moment—refilled his pipe. The belated peasants, having finished their wine, clattered out of the café, and took off their hats as they passed us.
"Life is very hard, is it not, Messieurs?" remarked Blanquette. It seemed to be her favourite philosophic proposition. She sighed. "If Père Paragot had only lived to play at the wedding tomorrow!"
"What then?"
"I should have had ten francs."
"Ah!" said my master.
"First I lose my louis, and now I lose my ten francs! ah! Sainte Vierge de Miséricorde!"