“Oh! as to that, I don’t believe a word of it; do I dose myself, monsieur? and you see how well I am!”
“It is a fact that you are getting too stout, my dear love; but if you would have consented to take a little white mustard seed, you would have lost flesh.”
“No, thanks, monsieur; I should probably have become like a lath, and I prefer to remain as I am. To hear you talk, one would say that I was enormous.”
“Not exactly, but you haven’t any waist.”
“I haven’t any waist! I haven’t any waist! Upon my word, I guess that it’s your eyes that are diseased; you see crooked.”
“What! why do you say that my eyes are diseased? Is it because they are red? Don’t joke, Lolotte, are my eyes swollen?”
“Ah! so I haven’t any waist! All men don’t think as you do, monsieur, and in spite of my stoutness, if I chose to listen to all the pleasant things that are said to me——”
“Madame! you forget that your daughter is here.—Eolinde, come and look at my eyes; it seems to me that they sting.”
Mademoiselle Eolinde was looking over a volume of plays; instead of answering her father, she cried:
“We must play La Forêt Périlleuse, papa, and I will be the fair Ca—Ca—Camille!”