"Very fine, mademoiselle," replied the unknown, without the slightest hesitation.
"What is it to be?" said Liénarde.
"'The Good Judgment of Madame the Virgin,'—a morality, if you please, damsel."
"Ah! that makes a difference," responded Liénarde.
A brief silence ensued—broken by the stranger.
"It is a perfectly new morality, and one which has never yet been played."
"Then it is not the same one," said Gisquette, "that was given two years ago, on the day of the entrance of monsieur the legate, and where three handsome maids played the parts—"
"Of sirens," said Liénarde.
"And all naked," added the young man.
Liénarde lowered her eyes modestly. Gisquette glanced at her and did the same. He continued, with a smile,—
"It was a very pleasant thing to see. To-day it is a morality made expressly for Madame the Demoiselle of Flanders."
"Will they sing shepherd songs?" inquired Gisquette.
"Fie!" said the stranger, "in a morality? you must not confound styles. If it were a farce, well and good."
"That is a pity," resumed Gisquette. "That day, at the Ponceau Fountain, there were wild men and women, who fought and assumed many aspects, as they sang little motets and bergerettes."
"That which is suitable for a legate," returned the stranger, with a good deal of dryness, "is not suitable for a princess."
"And beside them," resumed Liénarde, "played many brass instruments, making great melodies."
"And for the refreshment of the passers-by," continued Gisquette, "the fountain spouted through three mouths, wine, milk, and hippocrass, of which every one drank who wished."
"And a little below the Ponceau, at the Trinity," pursued Liénarde, "there was a passion performed, and without any speaking."
