“Here’s your fate, Jacques,” whispered Dollard, indicating the fattest maid of the inclosure, who sat in peaceful slumber with a purr like a contented cat.
Jacques, carrying his cap in both hands, craned around Dollard.
“No, m’sieur. She’s a fine creature to look at, but a man must not wed for his eyes alone. His stomach craves a wife that will not doze by his fire and let the soup burn.”
“Here, then, my child, behold the other extreme. What activity must be embodied in that nymph watching us from the corner!”
“Holy saints, m’sieur! There be not eels enough in the St. Lawrence to fill her ribs and cover her hulk. I have a low-spirited turn, m’sieur, but not to the length of putting up a death’s-head in my kitchen. A man’s feelings go against bones.”
“These girls here have been instructed,” said Madame Bourdon at the ear of the suitor. “These girls are not canaille from the streets of Paris.”
“Do they come from Rouen, madame?” inquired Jacques.
“Some of them came from Rouen. See! Here is a girl from Rouen at this end of the room.”
“Now, m’sieur,” whispered Dollard’s vassal, squeezing his cap in agitated hands, “I shall have to make my proposals. I see the girl. Will you have the goodness to tell me how I must begin?”