“Toussaint, my boy, I advise you to give us quiet or papa will take you in hand,” said the parent.
The boy yelled again but more from deviltry than from fear.
“You drunken sot, you just touch my darling, and I will attend to you,” said the mother, stretching out the white hand towards the bully which her care of the nails made to become a claw at need.
“Who the deuse wants to touch the imp? you know it is only my style of speaking, my dear Oliva, and that though I may dust your skirt now and then I have always respected the kid’s jacket. Tut, tut, come and embrace your poor Beausire who will be rich as a King in a week; come, my little Nicole.”
“When you are rich as a king, it will be another matter: but up to that time no fooling.”
“But I tell you that it is as safe as if I had a million. You might be kind for a little while. Go and get credit of the baker.”
“A man rolling in millions wants a baker to let him have a loaf on trust, ha, ha!”
“I want some red barely sugar,” howled the child.
“Come, you king with the millions, give some sugar sticks to your prince.”
Beausire started to put his hand to his fob but stopped half way.