“I don’t know,” she said on the evening in question; “I don’t know. It may be all right; but if Adolphe turns against me, what are we to do then?”
“Mère Bauche,” said the capitaine, sipping his coffee and puffing out the smoke of his cigar, “Adolphe will not turn against us.” It had been somewhat remarked by many that the capitaine was more at home in the house, and somewhat freer in his manner of talking with Madame Bauche, since this matrimonial alliance had been on the tapis than he had ever been before. La Mère herself observed it, and did not quite like it; but how could she prevent it now? When the capitaine was once married she would make him know his place, in spite of all her promises to Marie.
“But if he says he likes the girl?” continued Madame Bauche.
“My friend, you may be sure that he will say nothing of the kind. He has not been away two years without seeing girls as pretty as Marie. And then you have his letter.”
“That is nothing, capitaine; he would eat his letter as quick as you would eat an omelet aux fines herbes.”
Now the capitaine was especially quick over an omelet aux fines herbes.
“And, Mère Bauche, you also have the purse; he will know that he cannot eat that, except with your good will.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Madame Bauche, “poor lad! He has not a sous in the world unless I give it to him.” But it did not seem that this reflection was in itself displeasing to her.
“Adolphe will now be a man of the world,” continued the capitaine. “He will know that it does not do to throw away everything for a pair of red lips. That is the folly of a boy, and Adolphe will be no longer a boy. Believe me, Mère Bauche, things will be right enough.”
“And then we shall have Marie sick and ill and half dying on our hands,” said Madame Bauche.