“With a bunch of quills that was on my desk—very expensive quills, rooster’s quills, which I keep to write my circulars with. Who gave you leave to touch anything on my desk? But just come here, Monsieur Théodore. What did you make those ears with?”
“With a paper that was on the floor, papa.”
“On the floor! God bless me! it is Monsieur Mermillon’s letter, in which he tells me in detail what his daughter’s dowry will be! You little villain! to make horse’s ears with my letters! Some day he will take thousand-franc notes from my desk to make horns with. I will deal with you, young man.”
Giraud started to run after his son, but I stopped him; I heard madame calling in an angry voice:
“Giraud! Giraud! aren’t you coming to finish dressing me? Françoise doesn’t know how to fasten my dress; that girl is frightfully awkward.”
“There, there it is,” said Giraud; “she is going to send her back again because she don’t fasten her dress quickly enough. It is always the same story. Faith, I don’t care, let her fix herself! Just look at my thumbs; I haven’t any flesh left round my nails.”
Someone half opened the bedroom door; Madame Giraud stood at the entrance half dressed, and behind her came the maid, who resumed her broom, muttering:
“Ah! what a dog’s life! as if I came here to squeeze her waist in!”
At sight of me, Madame Giraud took one step backward, then three forward, and exclaimed:
“Oh! pray excuse my disorderly appearance, Monsieur Blémont, but Monsieur Giraud is a terrible man; he never finishes dressing me! But I can’t remain half dressed. I give you my word, monsieur, that this dress is too big for me.”