“I thought it was a Temptation of Saint Anthony.”
“Oh! that’s because it isn’t finished. And that little Hop-o’-my-Thumb—what do you say to that?”
“I thought it was Bluebeard.”
“That’s because he has on his seven-league boots.”
“Come, come, neighbor! You haven’t got into your breeches yet!”
“Ah! they’re a delicate part of the costume, you know.”
“But nothing but long trousers are worn now, even at balls.”
“When a fellow has, as I have, a fine leg and a calf fit for a model, he isn’t sorry to show them.—Would you like to read my last verses, on the Marquise Désormeaux’s favorite dog?”
“No, thanks, much obliged!”
“They have made quite a sensation. All the ladies are saying, in a joking way, that they must have me to write their husbands’ epitaphs. The beginning is rather fine: