“That is you!” said the stout little woman sleepily.
The old fellow chuckled:
“Thou didst not dream it was the President of the Republic, my Marie?” said he, and cackled again. “If so, I like not thy complacency.”
She turned to the wall.
“Marie,” said he—“the Petit Journal lies. The English are not canaille.... He gave me five hundred francs.... Our little Aloysius shall go on with his studies.... The Petit Journal lies.”
“Tsh! Hodendouche! Thou art grown garrulous. Get thee into thy nightcap and to sleep. Thou fool! he loves the woman.”
There was a long silence.
“Mon Dieu!” said the old man—“yes, indeed. My eyesight is not what it was.”