“Yes, I have one, but I shan’t put it on; I shall simply carry it on my arm.”
“You evidently mean to make conquests.”
“Why not? I saw a little lady just now up in a tree—fichtre! messieurs, such a pretty brunette! such a lovely bird!—Come, Monsieur Miaulard, let’s rehearse our fight with swords. One, two, up; three, four, down!”
“I say, messieurs, it isn’t certain that we shall give the play, after all,” said Monsieur Mangeot, appearing in his hermit’s costume, with a huge piece of cotton batting pasted to his chin, which imitated a white beard to perfection.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“What has happened?”
“Has some other actor fallen into the pond?”
“I insist upon it’s being emptied at once, so that we shan’t have any more of that.”
“No, messieurs, it isn’t that, no one has fallen into the pond; only Kingerie was capable of such a masterpiece as that; but Monsieur Glumeau is complaining, and says that he doesn’t know if he will be able to act.”
“Bah! what’s the matter with him now?”