“‘Madame la comtesse,’” began Saillard, rising, and bowing to his wife, with an agreeable smile.
“Goodness! Saillard; how ridiculous you look. Take care, my man, you’ll make the woman laugh.”
“‘Madame la comtesse,’” resumed Saillard. “Is that better, wife?”
“Yes, my duck.”
“‘The place of the worthy Monsieur de la Billardiere is vacant; my son-in-law, Monsieur Baudoyer—‘”
“‘Man of talent and extreme piety,’” prompted Gaudron.
“Write it down, Baudoyer,” cried old Saillard, “write that sentence down.”
Baudoyer proceeded to take a pen and wrote, without a blush, his own praises, precisely as Nathan or Canalis might have reviewed one of their own books.
“‘Madame la comtesse’—Don’t you see, mother?” said Saillard to his wife; “I am supposing you to be the minister’s wife.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” she answered sharply. “I know that.”