The door was opened by the husband of that good lady—it is curious how some men lose their individuality on getting married; they become mere nonentities—how often you hear a man described as Mrs So-and-So’s husband. The doctor, thinking that by speaking his words very distinctly, and in a loud tone of voice, he could make any Frenchman understand English, acted on that plan.
“Is—Susan? Bless my soul! What the dooce am I thinking of?” interrupted the doctor to himself. He commenced anew. “Is—Missis—Mark—worth—in?”
“Hein?” grunted the Frenchman, interrogatively.
The doctor repeated his question, only this time asking for “madam” instead of “mistress.”
The Gaul’s face brightened, and he looked more intelligent. “Ah-h! Yase! yase, yase, yase!” he said, nodding his head violently, “de madame? de Inglismans, hay?”
“Yes, yes! quite right,” ejaculated the doctor. “I say you are quite right,” bawling out the words at the top of his voice. “Confound these stupid French frogs,” he muttered to himself; “why, they can’t understand plain English! Is—she—you—know—who in?” And seeing that the Gaul liked to nod, he nodded his head until he grew quite apoplectic in the face.
“Non,” said the Mère Cliquelle’s husband. “Ze Inglisman’s is go—vat you call it, eh? Ah, yase, is go oot.”
“Oh! she’s gone out, is she?”
“Ah-h! Yase! yase, yase!” nodded the M.C.’s husband.
“Do—you—know—when—she—will—come—back?”