MME. DUPONT. Tell me, please? I insist.
NURSE. Oh, very well—
MME. DUPONT. Go on.
NURSE. Oh, all right. I may be only a poor country girl, but I’m not quite so stupid as that. I know what it is you want. Just because master’s cross at your having promised me thirty francs a month more if I came to Paris. [Turning to George] Well, and what do you expect? Mustn’t I have my own little boy looked after? And hasn’t his father got to eat and drink? We’re only poor country folks, we are.
GEORGE. You’re making a mistake, nurse. There’s nothing at all the matter. My mother was quite right to promise you the thirty francs extra, and the only thing in my mind is that she did not promise you enough. Now I have decided when baby is old enough to have a dry-nurse and you leave us, just to show how grateful we are, to give you, er—
MME. DUPONT. We shall make you a present, you understand, over and above your wages. We shall give you five hundred francs, or perhaps a thousand. That is, of course, if baby is in perfectly good health.
NURSE [stupefied] You’ll give me five hundred francs—for myself—[Struggling to understand] But you haven’t got to. We didn’t agree to that.
MME. DUPONT. No.
NURSE [to herself] What’s up, then?