"Why, there's Monsieur Guillardin—my landlord!"
"Himself, Monsieur Bocal. What are you doing here, pray?"
"What am I doing? Why, I am marrying my daughter Pétronille to Monsieur Girie here.—Come forward, Girie; come, I say, and speak to my landlord, to whom I sent cards, I am sure."
The tall, fair-haired youth came forward with the loutish air that never left him, and bowed sheepishly to Monsieur Guillardin. This incident produced a fortunate diversion; attention was diverted from Balloquet, although Madame Girie continued to mutter:
"Oh! if my son should fight, I should be sick three times over! But he shan't go out, or, if he does, I'll follow him! I'm capable of anything where Pamphile's concerned. When he ain't home at eleven o'clock or twelve, I go and sit at the window, and there I sit all night, till he comes home. When I hear a horse, I says: 'There's my son.'—Sometimes I don't have anything on but three undervests and two chemises! but I don't care; I snap my fingers at the risk of catching cold!"
But nobody listened to Madame Girie. Monsieur Guillardin, having acknowledged the salutations of Monsieur Bocal and long-legged Pamphile, said to the former:
"Faith! my dear monsieur, this is a curious coincidence. I'm here for the same purpose that you are."
"I don't understand."
"I have married my daughter to-day, and we're celebrating the occasion right beside you here."
"Is that so? can it be possible? This other wedding party is yours? I mean, that you're marrying your daughter—no, giving her in marriage?"