“Let me look at your hands, M. Chapeau; the inside of your hands. No, you are not a hard-working fellow; your hand is as soft as a lady’s.”
“What signifies my hand? I shan’t make a worse husband, shall I, because my hand is not as horny as your own.”
“No, but a hard-fisted fellow is the only man that will suit my daughter.”
“But, Michael Stein, she herself thinks—”
“Who ever heard of asking a girl what she thinks herself? Of course she’d sooner be a fine lady, and spend her time walking about a big chateau than be milking cows and minding goats.”
“But won’t she be earning her living and her wages honestly?”
“Wages! I don’t like those sort of wages, M. Chapeau. I don’t mean to say anything uncivil, and I hope you won’t take it amiss, but there are two trades I don’t fancy for my children: the one is that of a soldier, the other that of a great man’s servant.”
“Gracious me, Michael Stein! why I’m both,” said Chapeau, rather offended.
“I beg your pardon again and again, and I really mean no offence: clown as I am, I hope I know better than to say anything to hurt my own guest in my own house.”
Chapeau assured him he was not offended, and begged to know why the old man objected to see his children become soldiers or servants.