“You say that because you are modest; nobody can’t say that you aren’t modest.”
“My dear Mme. Cibot, no, I tell you. I always was ugly, and I never was loved in my life.”
“You, indeed!” cried the portress. “You want to make me believe at this time of day that you are as innocent as a young maid at your time of life. Tell that to your granny! A musician at a theatre too! Why, if a woman told me that, I wouldn’t believe her.”
“Montame Zipod, you irritate him!” cried Schmucke, seeing that Pons was writhing under the bedclothes.
“You hold your tongue too! You are a pair of old libertines. If you were ugly, it don’t make no difference; there was never so ugly a saucepan-lid but it found a pot to match, as the saying is. There is Cibot, he got one of the handsomest oyster-women in Paris to fall in love with him, and you are infinitely better looking than him! You are a nice pair, you are! Come, now, you have sown your wild oats, and God will punish you for deserting your children, like Abraham—”
Exhausted though he was, the invalid gathered up all his strength to make a vehement gesture of denial.
“Do lie quiet; if you have, it won’t prevent you from living as long as Methuselah.”
“Then, pray let me be quiet!” groaned Pons. “I have never known what it is to be loved. I have had no child; I am alone in the world.”
“Really, eh?” returned the portress. “You are so kind, and that is what women like, you see—it draws them—and it looked to me impossible that when you were in your prime—”
“Take her away,” Pons whispered to Schmucke; “she sets my nerves on edge.”