"No, no! she is not twenty-eight, she was twenty-seven and a half last month."
"And her fortune; that is important. How much of a dowry has she?"
"Dowry—why she has a thousand things. First, magnificent hopes; then, what her father may obtain from the government for his plans for rural economy, which he is to send immediately to the minister; also, all that her Uncle Mignon will leave her, and he is certain to be appointed sub-prefect this year or next year—he cannot miss it; and lastly, a superb and very lucrative office which the marquis has the promise of for his son-in-law!"
"And for fifty years he has been trying unsuccessfully to obtain a place for his brother."
"That doesn’t prove anything. Besides, my friend, I don’t haggle over a dowry like a tradesman on Rue Saint Denis. Bargain for a wife! Fie, fie! And a wife like Mademoiselle de la Pincerie! It seems to me that the honor of entering such a family should count for something."
Alfred took Robineau’s hand and said to him with the utmost coolness:
"My friend, I tell you again, if you make this marriage, you will make a fool of yourself."
Robineau glared at his friend with eyes like an angry turkey-cock’s, and dropped his hand, saying:
"My friend, as to making a fool of myself, I don’t need your advice. I don’t make love to goatherds, but I will marry whomever I please."
"Marry the devil, if you choose!" said Alfred, abruptly leaving the gallery.