When I have them I start' to come home; then I got to pas' at Jean Poquelin's house." "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the other, throwing his leg over the arm of his chair.
"Wait," said the interpreter.

"I come along slow, not making some noises; still, still"-- "And scared," said the smiling one.
"_Mais_, wait.

I get all pas' the 'ouse.

'Ah!' I say; 'all right!' Then I see two thing' before! Hah! I get as cold and humide, and shake like a leaf.

You think it was nothing?
There I see, so plain as can be (though it was making nearly dark), I see Jean--Marie--Po-que-lin walkin' right in front, and right there beside of him was something like a man--but not a man--white like paint!--I dropp' on the grass from scared--they pass'; so sure as I live 'twas the ghos' of Jacques Poquelin, his brother!" "Pooh!" said the listener.
"I'll put my han' in the fire," said the interpreter.
"But did you never think," asked the other, "that that might be Jack Poquelin, as you call him, alive and well, and for some cause hid away by his brother ?" "But there har' no cause!" said the other, and the entrance of third parties changed the subject.
Some months passed and the street was opened.