"Nothing, dear madame, a trifle!"
"He calls two handsome cups nothing, which his son broke while he was walking on his head."
"Does your son walk on his head? Dear me! I should have liked to see that."
"He can do it again."
"No, no, I don't want him to do it again—he'll smash all the china we've got!"
"Very well; something else, then—to show you how strong the lad is already.—Artaban, hold out a chair at arm's length.—That won't endanger your cups, Mirotaine.—Come, Artaban, pick out a chair."
The boy took one of the salon chairs, and, although he did not actually hold it at arm's length, kept it in the air for some time; and then, as he felt tired, instead of putting it down on the floor, he suddenly threw it over his shoulder, so that the legs struck Madame Trichon, who was standing behind him, in the face.
"Oh! I am wounded!" she cried, putting her hand to her face; "my nose is broken!"
"No, no, madame; it's nothing at all!" said Monsieur Brid'oison; "your nose is still in place; just a little scratch, that's all!"
"Water! cold water, I entreat you! so that I can bathe my face."