"Nay, but—"
"Why, I am only eighteen years of age, and, considering the sort of life I lead, there is no chance of such a thing. I rise at five o'clock, winter or summer; I am never up after ten, or, at latest, eleven; I eat sufficient to satisfy my appetite, which certainly is not a very great one; I do not suffer from exposure to cold; I work all day, singing as merrily as a lark; and at night I sleep like a dormouse. My heart is free, light, and happy. My employers are so well satisfied with what I do for them, that I am quite sure not to want for work; so what is there for me to be ill about? It really is too amusing to hear you try to talk sense, and only utter nonsense! Me ill!" And, at the very absurdity of the idea, Rigolette again burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, so loud and prolonged that a stout gentleman who was walking before her, carrying a dog under his arm, turned around quite angrily, believing all this mirth was excited by his presence.
Resuming her composure, Rigolette slightly curtseyed to the stout individual, and pointing to the animal under his arm, said:
"Is your dog so very tired, sir?"
The fat man grumbled out some indistinct reply, and continued on his way.
"My dear neighbour," said Rodolph, "are you losing your senses?"
"It is your fault if I am."
"How so?"
"Because you talk such nonsense to me."
"Do you call my saying that perhaps you might be ill, talking foolishly?"