“Look at him, my son; there’s our Numa. When you are grown up you can say that you have seen him, qué!”
“His Bourbon nose is all there! and not one of his teeth missing!”
“Not a single gray hair, either!”
“Té, I should say not! he is not so very old yet. He was born in ’32—the year that Louis Philippe pulled down the mission crosses, pecaïré!”
“That scoundrel of a Philippe!”
“They scarcely show, those forty-three years of his.”
“Sure enough, they certainly don’t.... Té! here, great star—”
And with a bold gesture a big girl with burning eyes throws a kiss toward him from afar that resounds through the air like the cry of a bird.
“Take care, Zette—suppose his wife should see you.”
“The one in blue, is that his wife?”