“The wife of the barber, then—?”
“Indubitably. As you say. The wife of the barber receives a small stipend to take care of her. So much by the month. Eh, then! It is without doubt very little, for we are all poor here.”
“You are not poor, madame.”
“As to my lodgers,” replied Madame Bouclet, with a smiling and a gracious bend of her head, “no. As to all things else, so-so.”
“You flatter me, madame.”
“Monsieur, it is you who flatter me in living here.”
Certain fishy gasps on Mr. The Englishman’s part, denoting that he was about to resume his subject under difficulties, Madame Bouclet observed him closely, and whisked up her delicate line and rod again with triumphant success.
“O no, monsieur, certainly not. The wife of the barber is not cruel to the poor child, but she is careless. Her health is delicate, and she sits all day, looking out at window. Consequently, when the Corporal first came, the poor little Bebelle was much neglected.”
“It is a curious—” began Mr. The Englishman.
“Name? That Bebelle? Again you are right, monsieur. But it is a playful name for Gabrielle.”