“Good afternoon, my friends!” said Monsieur Dufournelle, with an “ouf!” which sent the sheets of music scattered over the piano flying about the room. “We have come early; it’s bad form, but we don’t care for that!—You are all well, my dear friends?”
“Very well—extremely well! It is so nice of you to come early!” said Madame Glumeau, dissembling a slight grimace.
“I remarked to my husband,” rejoined the lady with the fine teeth, “that perhaps it would be discourteous for us to come before five o’clock; but he replied that we didn’t stand on ceremony with you.”
“And he was right, he was quite right!” said Monsieur Glumeau, pressing one of his hands to his stomach; then he turned to his daughter and muttered: “The devil take them! I want my enema!”
“Besides, we have lots of things to talk about,” said Madame Dufournelle; “aren’t we to distribute the parts to-day for our performance?—Ha! ha! what fun it will be! I have never acted, but I am looking forward to it. Ha! ha!”
“Would you believe that my wife hasn’t talked about anything else for a fortnight, and I have to take her to the theatre every night, because she claims that that is like giving her lessons! One day she tries to imitate Scriwaneck, another time Mademoiselle Fargueil; then it’s Aline Duval whom she tries to mimic, or else pretty Alphonsine, or Grassot.”
“Oh! really, Monsieur Dufournelle, what are you talking about? Imitate Grassot indeed! do you suppose that I mean to take men’s parts? Ha! ha! ha!”
“I don’t know, but I assure you that you caught some of Grassot’s intonations when you were rehearsing—I don’t know what rôle.—But where is our dear little Astianax? aren’t we to see him?”
“Yes, indeed, you will see him; he should be at home before this; I don’t know where he can have gone.”
“I’ll bet that he’s gone to get a b—b—bouquet for p—p—papa.”