"Le Bâton de M. Molard?" repeated the marchioness, not understanding in the least. "What is he talking about?" and then, all at once, the explanation of the mystery dawned upon her, and she exclaimed, in consternation: "Ah, I see! 'Le Bâton de M. Molard' is 'Le Bâtard de Mauléon,' translated by Pierrot into his own language. I was quite right in wanting to write the title for him, but he would not hear of it."
M. de Jonzac turned his eyes up towards the ceiling with a tragic gesture of despair.
"He is incorrigible—absolutely hopeless," he said, half laughing and half vexed.
"I can't help it, I am as I was made," said Pierrot, blushing furiously and very much annoyed. "And then, too, I didn't know what I was doing yesterday; we were almost upset going into Pont-sur-Loire."
"Almost upset?" exclaimed Madame de Bracieux, "upset! why, how?"
"Because Bijou had the insane idea of wanting to go down the Rue Rabelais with the coach; and so M. de Clagny went—the old fool."
"Stop! that's enough!" interrupted the marchioness; "will you kindly speak more respectfully when you have anything to say about my old friend Clagny?"
"Well, all the same, your old friend hasn't got his head screwed on very well, considering his age. He might have killed us; and, besides that, I can tell you we did kick up a shindy in the Rue Rabelais. The coach scraped against the curb-stones; all the kids were running along nearly under the horses' heels; then the sound of the horn brought all the women to the windows, and didn't they exclaim when they saw what it was. That part wasn't so bad, either, for there were some jolly pretty ones, I can tell you; weren't there, Paul?"
As M. de Rueille appeared to be preoccupied, and did not answer, Pierrot turned to the abbé.
"Weren't there, M. Courteil?"