“I’ve had enough wine for to-day; I must look out for myself.”
Meanwhile Chamoureau, thinking that the moment had come to put in a little speech, took the preserve dish which contained the proceeds of the collection, and said to the peasant:
“My good woman, it is with renewed pleasure—no; I noticed long ago—wait; no, never mind that.—You will not see Madame de Belleville, for, notwithstanding her earnest desire to know you, a sudden indisposition, which I attribute to—what on earth can have made my wife ill? perhaps it was the melon; and yet it was delicious; but there is much difference in digestions—What were we saying?—Ah! there’s the little rascal who dared to throw stones at my wife. He looks promising. I say, my buck—my lost child!—he’s the lost child, isn’t he?”
“Alas! yes, monsieur.”
“Well, little gallows-bird [petit pendu]—lost child [petit perdu], I mean,—though, after all, if he keeps on, I shouldn’t be surprised if he got hanged some day!”
“Oh, monsieur! on my word——”
“Do not be alarmed, Widow Jacqueline Treillard, that is simply a supposition.—Well, you little rascal, will you ever throw stones at my wife again?”
“You’re the one I’ll throw ‘em at, to teach you to say I’m going to be hung!” retorted the boy, glaring angrily at Chamoureau, who was completely disconcerted, for he did not expect that retort.
Freluchon, observing the widow’s distress, rose hastily, took the preserve dish from Chamoureau’s hands, and poured the contents into Jacqueline’s apron.
“There, my good woman,” he said, “it was my idea to take up this collection for your benefit; so it is my place to hand you the proceeds, especially as Monsieur de Belleville keeps you waiting too long. Now, go away with your foster-child; for he might say things which would put him out of favor in this house.”