“He wouldn’t let me go; he swore I’d got to say I’d meet him; but I wouldn’t.”
“You were wrong! You’re a fool, Tapotte! You shouldn’t have refused monsieur le marquis.”
“Bah! get along with you! He’s old and he’s ugly!”
This conversation suggested an idea to our hare-brained youth; he wrapped his head in his handkerchief, and began to cough and spit, imitating the decidedly nasal notes of the marquis.
“Mon Dieu! there’s some one outside!” cried La Thomassinière.
“Yes, some old fellow coughing,” replied Tapotte.
“Why! it’s he—it’s the marquis. Fool that you are! Why didn’t you admit that you told him where you lived?”
“I swear, monsieur, that I——”
“Hush! hold your tongue! he’s there and he’s getting impatient.”
“Jarni! he’s got the catarrh, that man has!”