"It isn't that I won't, but—well, not here like that, it is so absurd! I cannot understand your not seeing how ridiculous it is."
Bijou shook her rough head, and the loose curls over her forehead danced about.
"No, I do not see that it is at all ridiculous," and then, instead of going any farther, she turned round, and they went back to the house without another word.
On going up into his room, M. de Rueille found his wife reading a letter.
"I have just heard from Dr. Brice," she said, handing him the letter. "It seemed to me that Marcel had not been well just lately."
"Not well—Marcel? Why the child eats and drinks more than I do. He sleeps like a top, too, and grows like a mushroom. Oh, that's good, that is! And what disease has he discovered in the boy—our excellent Brice?"
"No disease at all!"
"Oh, well, that's lucky!
"But he orders him to have sea-air."
"Sea-air for a lad who is in such downright good health that it positively makes him unbearable, he is so riotous?"