"And the wills, Captain?"
"Oh! I tear them up."
I object:
"But I do not know how to cook."
"Oh! I will do the cooking; I will make my bed; I will do everything."
He becomes gallant, sprightly; his eye sparkles. He leans towards the hedge, stretching out his neck. His eyes become bloodshot. And in a lower voice he says:
"If you came to me, Célestine,—well...."
"Well, what?"
"Well, the Lanlaires would die of rage. Ah! that's an idea!"
I lapse into silence, and pretend to be profoundly dreaming. The captain becomes impatient. He digs the heels of his shoes into the sandy path.