"What are they made of?" asked stout Julienne, looking at Laura, who replied with the utmost seriousness:
"Preserved snails. The next time you go into a confectioner's, ask him for a snail méringue, and see how good it is!"
"Come, come, mesdemoiselles, we mustn't talk so much. Madame will soon be back, and this ball dress don't get on at all; and, you know, we still have two wedding dresses to finish this week."
"Two wedding dresses! Everybody seems to be getting married! I don't know why nobody marries me;—and you, Julienne, wouldn't you like to get married?"
"Me? oh, no, mademoiselle! on the contrary, I'd hate it."
"You would? Why, pray?"
"Because my cousin told me that when you're married you can't sleep alone any more; and I like to kick my legs about in bed, and I know it would bother me to have someone with me."
"Oh! what a simpleton you are, big Julienne! you sleep with your husband, and that don't prevent your kicking your legs about—not by any means!"
"How do you know that, Mamzelle Laura? Are you married?"
Mademoiselle Laura contented herself with an impatient gesture, muttering: