Lustucru (beside himself). Oh! hey diddle dee! get out!
Michel (still weeping). I see you feel sad too. My Moumouth will die of starvation.
Lustucru (pacing the room angrily). Humph!
Michel. And I have just received a letter from the Countess saying she will return soon, and she hopes to find Moumouth well, and that she has reserved for me a handsome reward.
Lustucru (still pacing the room). Ho!
Michel. But since Moumouth refuses your hash, Father Lustucru, I think I shall taste it, to set Moumouth an example. It looks very nice.
Lustucru (alarmed). Don't touch it, I beg of you.
Michel. Why not? Is there anything wrong in the hash?
Lustucru. No, certainly not; but what is prepared for a cat should not serve for a Christian. It is necessary to guard propriety, and not trifle with the dignity of human nature.
Michel. Very well; Moumouth may suit himself. But I can not believe your hash is so very nice, or Moumouth would not have refused it.