"You are right, Peyrehorade," said his wife: "drop your idol. Can you not see that you prevent our guest from eating? You may be sure that he has seen in Paris much finer statues than yours. In the Tuileries there are dozens, and they also are in bronze."
"There you have the saintly ignorance of the provinces!" interrupted M. de Peyrehorade. "The idea of comparing an admirable antique to the insipid figures of Coustou!
"'How irreverent my housekeeper
Speaks of the gods!"
Do you know that my wife wanted me to melt my statue into a bell for our church? She would have been the godmother. Just think of it, to melt a masterpiece by Myron, sir!"
"Masterpiece! Masterpiece! A charming masterpiece she is! to break a man's leg."
"Madam, do you see that?" said M. de Peyrehorade, in a resolute tone, extending toward her his right leg in its changeable silk stocking; "if my Venus had broken that leg there for me I should not regret it."
"Good gracious! Peyrehorade, how can you say such a thing? Fortunately, the man is better. And yet I can not bring myself to look at a statue which has caused so great a disaster. Poor Jean Coll!"
"Wounded by Venus, sir," said M. de Peyrehorade, with a loud laugh; "wounded by Venus, and the churl complains!
"'Veneris nee præmia noris.'
Who has not been wounded by Venus?"