But Cézarine, who was not at all anxious to listen to the seventy-two stanzas, interrupted the peasant in the middle of the fourth, saying:
“My dear friend, your thory ith very pretty, but it will end by putting everybody to thleep like neighbor Mauflard, who hath been thnoring for an hour. If you thay tho, I’ll give you a then from a tragedy. Do you know what tragedy ith, my friendth?”
“No, madame,” said the villagers.
“And comedy—have you ever been to one?”
“No, madame.”
“Oh! I know what it is,” said one of the young blades; “I’ve been in Paris. It’s a place where you see men and women behind a curtain that goes up; and then there’s lamps, and they say silly things and wave their arms about, and you can’t understand nothing at all; but it’s almighty fine.”
“That’th the very thing, my dear boy; you know all about it. Tho you’ll be able to explain to the company what they can’t grathp right away. I’m going to give you a thene from Andromaque. Come with me, my fine fellow, you’re going to be Pyrrhuth.”
Cézarine took the tall youth by the arm, placed a wooden bench at the rear of the room, unfolded her shawl and draped it round her body, and removed one of her garters, which she knotted about the young peasant’s brow; he allowed himself to be thus decorated, not daring to stir. The peasants, their eyes fixed on Cézarine, waited impatiently to see what she was going to do. After removing her hat and arranging her hair on top of her head, Cézarine ordered the tall youth to stand on one end of the bench and took her own place on the other end, saying:
“Now we’re going to begin. But firtht I think I ought to tell you a little about the thubject of the play. Lithen: Andromaque ith a queen whothe huthband hath been killed; Pyrrhuth here wanth to marry her, and the won’t. That’th the whole of it—now you underthtand; don’t you?”
“Yes, yes,” said the peasants; “anyway Jean-François’ll explain the rest.”