“You take them awkwardly; you will prick yourself; you should let me put them in myself.”
“Put them where, pray?”
“Why, in your buttonhole.”
“Sapristi! how annoyed I am that I didn’t bring a bouquet!” repeated stout Dufournelle; and Mademoiselle Eolinde, overhearing him, muttered between her teeth:
“He s—s—says that every year, but he n—n—never brings one.”
“My dear Monsieur Glumeau,” said Monsieur Mangeot, stepping forward to shake hands with the master of the house, who seemed determined to keep his hands pressed against his abdomen, “pray accept my good wishes also, and may I be able to offer them again a hundred years hence.—That’s not a new idea, but it’s always good!—And the dear boy, the charming Astianax, where is he, pray?”
“I can’t imagine!” said Madame Glumeau; “to think of his not being here yet—to-day of all days! Really, I am beginning to be anxious.”
“You know, mamma, that my b—b—brother was going to order a b—b—bouquet full of meaning; no d—d-doubt—no doubt that is what is k—k—keeping him.”
“What on earth is a bouquet with a meaning?” inquired Monsieur Camuzard.
“It’s a selam, monsieur.”