“Ah! you think that, do you? I have known husbands of much intelligence who were as jealous as tigers! Say rather that that fat Dufournelle is not in love with his wife. Indeed, he’s too fat to be amorous.”
“Mon Dieu! what spiteful creatures women are! If a man is not jealous, it’s because he doesn’t love them.—I suppose you’d like me to be jealous, madame?”
“You, Edouard! Merciful heaven! that’s all you need,—to have that disease, with all those which you think you have! that would be the climax!”
“Say! suppose we play Les B—b—bains à Do—do—domicile?” cried Eolinde, who was still looking over the plays. “I would be Ninie.”
“My dear girl, do you intend to take all the parts in the plays we give?” said Monsieur Glumeau, admiring his feet. “It seems to me that if you take one part, that will be quite enough; with your defective speech, you know very well that you make plays last an hour longer than they should, and you have a perfect mania for choosing long parts! The last time we gave Andromache everybody thought that your scene with Orestes would never end!”
“Because it was in ve—verse, papa, which is harder for me to pro—pronounce. But when it is p—p—prose, it goes all by itself.”
“So I see! But why in the deuce did you insist on giving a tragedy, then?”
“Oh! my dear, they were quite right!” said Madame Glumeau; “for I assure you that they were enough to make you die of laughter, and you yourself in Pylades,—bless my soul! how fine you were!”
“Madame, you always take everything wrong. I played Pylades very nicely, and if it hadn’t been for my helmet, that kept falling down over my eyes and prevented me from seeing the audience, I should have made a very good impression.”
“Why, you did make a splendid impression, my friend! you looked like a blind man, and that was much more amusing!”