“Yes, my parents are down at Nogent, and that is just the reason that you find me strolling on the boulevard! Ha! ha! when the parents are in the country I am my own master here; I do just what I choose!”
“Oh! I understand you, you young rascal; we have some little intrigues on the carpet. You are right, it is never too early to begin to make one’s way in the world. If I had a son, I would say to him: ‘Sow your wild oats early; in that way, you will have less to sow later.’—What do we need in order to be virtuous? experience; and to have experience, we must have lived! How is that for logic? Doesn’t that smell of Cujas and Barthole?—And dear papa is well, I trust? The stitch in the side hasn’t come back?”
“No, but he has a constant itching on the sole of his foot just now.”
“Indeed! all he has to do is to scratch.”
“It isn’t very convenient to scratch the sole of your foot; you can’t do it while you’re walking. You know my father—it makes him anxious, he’s afraid that it’s some humor.”
“Well, that’s an idea! He has chilblains, that’s all.”
“I went to friend Fourriette, the druggist’s; he’s making something for father to put on his feet.”
“An excellent way to bring on a disease where there isn’t any.—But no matter, you gave us a delightful party! The play, although it wasn’t finished—or perhaps because it wasn’t finished—was very amusing. And the ball and the supper! Fichtre! we did go it!”
“I say, what about that young lady that you perched on a branch; it seemed to me that you were very attentive to her.”
“Madame Boutillon? Oh, yes!”