“Never mind,” he said. “I know the best way.”
“What is it?” she asked. “Tell me.”
“Morbleu!” he said, “I will give you such a doing some day, that I will put a quartette of babies in your belly, and then I will leave you to get your own living.”
“You will?” she cried. “Indeed! Well, you have but to begin. Such threats frighten me very little, I do not care a farthing for them. May I have my head shaved if I attempt to run away. (*) If you think you are capable of making four babies at once, come on, and begin at once—the mould is ready.”
(*) Long hair was considered honourable, and to have the
head shaved or cropped was a mark of disgrace.
“The devil take the woman,” said the husband; “there is no way of punishing her.”
He was obliged to let her fulfil her destiny, for nothing short of splitting her head open would have kept her backside quiet; so he let her run about like a bitch on heat amongst a couple of dozen dogs, and accomplish all her inordinate desires.
