"Why don't you cut off your hair and put on boy's clothes?" I asked. "Then you would get the egg. No one could tell the difference."
"You don't think I look like a woman? I? Mon Dieu! Where are your eyes?"
She was actually indignant with me who had thought to please her: my first encounter with the bewildering paradox of woman.
"Ah! mais non," she panted. "I may be strong like a man, but grâce à Dieu, I don't resemble one. Look."
And she sat bolt upright, her hands at her waist developing her bust to its full extent. She was not jolie, jolie, she explained, but she was as solidly built as another; I was to examine myself and see how like I was to the flattest of boards. Routed I chewed blades of grass in silence until she spoke again.
"Tell me of the patron."
"The patron?" I asked, puzzled.
"Yes—Monsieur—your master."
"You must call him maître," said I, "not patron." For the patron was any peddling "boss," the leader of a troupe of performing dogs or the miserable landlord of a village inn, Paragot a patron!
"I meant no harm. I have too much respect for him," said Blanquette, humbly.