"If you think that it was an invention of mine, you are much mistaken!" rejoined Robineau sourly; "it was that little clerk, who, without a word to me—Don’t throw your stones all over my room, I beg you."
"I’ll sweep your room! Mon Dieu! Monsieur Neatness! Pray take care! he would rather have me swallow the stones, no matter what the result might be—eh, my dear friend?—What on earth is the matter with you to-night, Raoul? your nose is longer than usual; have you some secret trouble?"
"Oh! it’s nothing to laugh at."
"Well, I’m not inclined to cry. If you want me to cry, play me an act of melodrama; play me Monsieur Truguelin in Cœlina. When you come to the suicide, I’ll throw a cherry-stone at you."
"Come, Fifine, let us talk sense, I beg you."
"Come then and sit down beside me, so that I can pinch you. You see, I feel tremendously like pinching something to-night."
"I have no time to fool."
"Dieu! how agreeable this lover of mine is!"
"I am going to a reception this evening at my intimate friend Alfred de Marcey’s, son of the Baron de Marcey, who has nearly a hundred thousand francs a year."
"Ah! so that’s the reason one can’t look you in the face, and the reason you threw your dishes downstairs. Exactly! when one visits a baron, one shouldn’t eat next day. You’ve grown two inches already."