Madame Jarnouillard interrupted this dialogue.
“Come, mesdames, and look over the furniture and other things to be sold,” she said; “sometimes one finds just the utensils one needs. Look at what is on exhibition.”
“Mon Dieu! madame, what do you expect us to buy in all that wretched trash?” cried Madame Droguet, with a disdainful glance at the farmer’s furniture. “I see nothing but rubbish—dirty stuff! and I have no doubt it’s all full of bugs!”
“That is what I was thinking!” muttered Madame Remplumé, while her husband spat at random.
“But there’s a pair of candlesticks that might do to use in the kitchen, eh, Droguet?—Bah! he doesn’t hear me; he’s whistling a polka.”
“Your husband is a zephyr!”
“He’s a wind, but not a zephyr!”
“Ah! that’s very good; I’ll remember that.—Did you hear that, Remplumé?”
“That isn’t a wind!” muttered Luminot; “it’s a continuous fusillade.”