Batiste received this broadside calmly, like a man well used to such discussions, and smiled slyly.
"Well, since it's you I'm dealing with. I won't offer you much less. Do you want twenty-five?"
The gipsy stretched out his arms with dramatic indignation, retreated a few steps, pulled at his fur cap, and made all kinds of extravagant and grotesque gestures to express his amazement.
"Mother of God! Twenty-five dollars! But did you look at the animal? Even if I had stolen him, I couldn't sell him at that price!"
But Batiste, to all his extravagant talk, always made the same reply:
"Twenty-five. Not a cent more."
And the gipsy, after exhausting all his persuasions, which were by no means few, fell back on the supreme argument.
"Monote ... walk the horse out ... so the gentleman can get a good look at him."
And away trotted Monote again, pulling the horse by the halter, more and more bored by all these promenadings.
"What a gait, hey?" said the gipsy. "You'd think he was a prince. Isn't he worth twenty-five dollars to you?"