“How, do you say?”
“M. de St Denys, you fell asleep, literally, on it last night in the ‘Landlust.’”
“‘Landlust!’ Oh! Dieu du ciel! I am beginning to remember.”
“Why,” he chuckled, with hazy inspiration, “your veritable figure, monsieur, stands out of the fog.”
“Indeed, it was thick enough to stand on.”
“And little Boppard, and the gross old Lambertine, who is father to our village Aspasia, the fat old man. But I must introduce you to Théroigne Lambertine, monsieur, to add one beat a minute to your politic pulses.”
“Indeed, I think I have already introduced myself.”
“The deuce you have!”
“And is she your Aspasia? And who is her Pericles?”
“Harkee, monsieur!” said St Denys, with a fall to particular gravity, “that will never do.”