“Good morning, madam!” said I pleasantly, as I entered. “Good morning, sir!”
The woman never even raised her head; the children looked at me, thrusting their fingers up their noses; the husband gave an ill-omened grunt.
This sounded badly. But at that instant an idea struck me that I can only call brilliant, although that word may cause my modesty to be questioned. The eldest child, a horrible-looking urchin of ten or twelve years old, frightfully dirty and half naked, was evidently poking the fire when I entered; he still held the stick he had been using for the purpose.
“Madam,” I continued still more pleasantly, “would you kindly allow your nephew to give me a light for my cigar?”
Instantly the woman raised her head and pushed away the locks of yellow hair that covered her eyes.
“My nephew!” said she. “But I haven’t a nephew!”
“But that boy there—is he not your nephew?”
“That boy there—he’s my son!”
“Your son—that great boy! But I can only beg your pardon. Upon my word, you look so young that I should never have supposed that you had a son of that age. I am a foreigner—a Frenchman. You must excuse my blunder.”