"I should say so; it isn't hard to remember. Syrup of Poupée."
"Boubée, you idiot! not Poupée."
"Oh! very good."
"Wait; I prefer to write it for you."
"On the whole, that will be better; my tongue might slip again."
"Here you are; and take that two-franc piece there—upon my table; I am inclined to believe that that will be enough."
"Let us hope so! a paltry syrup—that can't cost so much as that; for two francs you could get a lot of molasses.—I will go right away, bourgeois."
"Aren't you going to your stand, my little neighbor?" Roncherolle asked Violette, who was stooping in front of the fire, trying to make the two sticks burn by putting under them all the old papers that were lying about the room.
"In a minute, neighbor; I will wait until Chicotin comes back."
"And your love-affairs, my child, how do they come on? You are fully reconciled with your young lover now, I hope?"