“She lies; she’s forty-five at least. She’s an old maid, who’d like to be married on any terms; but no one will have her; in the first place, because she’s lame; and then because she chews tobacco.”
“Enough.—Antoine-Nicolas La Giraudière, forty years of age, clerk in the mayor’s office?”
“He’s a fat fellow, as round as a ball; they say that he’s not likely to set the North River on fire; perhaps he wants to consult you about giving him a little wit.”
“Impossible! People always think that they have enough.”
“Oh! wait a minute: his wife has already had four girls, and she’s furious because she hasn’t got any boys.”
“That’s it; I understand. He wants me to tell him a way to make boys.—Next. Romuald-César-Hercule de La Souche, Marquis de Vieux-Buissons, seventy-five years old, former Grand Huntsman, former light horseman, former page, former—Parbleu! he needn’t have taken the trouble to put ‘former’ before all his titles! I presume that he doesn’t ride or hunt any more. What can he want of me?”
“He has just bought a small estate in the suburbs; he is having a dispute with his vassals; he claims that they’re rabbits——”
“Rabbits! his vassals?”
“No—wait a minute; I made a mistake, it’s stags—cerfs.”
“Ah! very good, I understand what you mean—serfs.”