"Monseigneur," said Férulus, "the arrival of these gentlemen interrupted us; with your permission, I will begin again the poem I have written for your marriage. I have taken for my text this pretty line of Propertius:
"‘Nec domina ulla meo ponet vestigia lecto.’"
"That is at once gallant and voluptuous. I start——"
"I beg pardon, Monsieur Férulus, but we are starting too; by reading us your verses in advance, you deprive us of all the pleasure of a surprise. Besides, company is coming,—ladies; we must pay a little attention to our toilet."
"That is true," said Robineau; "why, I still have on my travelling coat!—François, come and dress your master."
Alfred and Edouard went in one direction, Robineau in another; Férulus left alone, but determined to recite his poetry to someone, ran after Jeannette, whom he saw in the courtyard, and compelled the poor girl to listen to the whole hundred and forty Alexandrines; after which, chucking her under the chin, he said:
"Well! how dost thou—Mon Dieu! what a lapsus linguæ!—How do you like that, Jeannette?"
"Monsieur, I like the lament of Angélique and Médor better."
"You are a fool, Jeannette; and really you are good for nothing but warming beds."
"Ah! By the way, monsieur, you better buy a warming pan; for the fall’s almost here, and if I’ve got to warm beds that way, I should get pretty tired!"