Amid the uproar, Monsieur Mauflard continued to snore in his chair; and one of the village wits exclaimed:
“Look—Père Mauflard’s asleep. I say! we must put up a game on Père Mauflard. What do you say?”
“Count me in on that,” said Cézarine, seating herself beside the tall, gawky youth whom she considered handsome, and who lowered his eyes and flushed to the ears when the lady from Paris looked at him.
“What shall we do to Père Mauflard?” asked a peasant.
“Take his hat.”
“Oh! that ain’t funny enough.”
“Steal his handkerchief.”
“Or his snuff-box.”
“Oh! he’ll guess right off that it was us who took that. That ain’t a good trick.”
“Do you want a good trick?” asked Cézarine; “if you do, jutht quietly take off his breecheth.”