He had made up his mind to have nothing more to do with the thimble, when along the _trottoïr_ came tripping a pretty damsel, with the purest of white caps, a sallow face, with fine dark eyes and abundant black hair. She bore over her shoulder, expanded, a plum-coloured umbrella. It had ceased raining, but the plum-colour threw out her pleasant face into relief: she knew that, and tripped on without folding it.
Instantly down bent the student, and, regardless of the dirty water, picked up the thimble. It slipped from his fingers into the gutter. Boldly he plunged his hand in, soiling thereby his _manchette_; but he recovered the trifle. The girl was abreast of him, and had passed before he was prepared.
He now pulled out a dogskin glove and polished the article. It _was_ silver. He affixed it to the end of his little finger and waited his opportunity.
Three ladies approached. The youth plucked up courage--holding out his little finger shod with the thimble. It was like Paris and the Three Goddesses. The ladies looked at him, at his thimble, then at each other, tossed their heads, and walked on.
Then came a very ugly woman--the exquisite put the thimble resolutely behind his back.
Next--back, under her plum-coloured umbrella, returned the grisette. At once the dandy stood forward.
"Mademoiselle, as you passed just now, assuredly you dropped this."
[Illustration: Sculpture over the kitchen entrance at Jacques Coeur's house.]
"Mais, Monsieur! ce n'est pas possible. Ce n'est pas à moi."
"Pardon, mademoiselle, you dropped it; I saw you. I heard it fall."
"Then it is nobody's. I will throw it away."
She held the little silver thimble between thumb and forefinger, turned it about, studied it, hesitated, was inclined to take it, but did not wish to place herself under an obligation to a fop, and a stranger--knitted her brows--when up came a young workman, with a lead pencil in his hand--in his blouse.
"Mais! que de singeries faites-vous là, Madeleine?" said he, and flip!--with his pencil he sent the thimble out from her hand, flying--neither he, nor the girl, nor I saw whither it went, or where it fell.
And--just thus stands the author of this little work, offering his trifle to the gentle and well-disposed reader, who is inclined, may be, to be pleased with it, and to adopt it. But up comes the envious reviewer, and with his pen--flip--he sends the poor little article away--away--away, into the limbo of forgotten books, "que de singeries faites-vous là--avec cette bagatelle là?"