"Oh! women?" chirped Monsieur. "In the first place, you are not women."
"I am not women? What am I, then?"
Monsieur rounded his lips,—My! what a stupid air he had!—and very tenderly, or pretending tenderness, he buzzed:
"Why! you are my wife, my little wife, my pretty little wife. There is no harm in entering the room of one's little wife, I suppose."
When Monsieur played the imbecile lover, it was because he wanted to get some money out of Madame. She, still suspicious, replied:
"Yes, there is harm."
And she minced:
"Your little wife? Your little wife? It is not so sure that I am your little wife."
"What! It is not so sure?"
"Indeed, one never knows. Men are so queer."
"I tell you, you are my little wife,—my dear, my only little wife . . . ah!"
"And you . . . my baby . . . my big baby . . . his little wife's only big baby . . . na!"
I was lacing Madame, who, with bare arms raised, was looking into the mirror. And I had a great desire to laugh. How they tired me with their "little wife" and their "big baby"! What a stupid air they both had!
After picking up skirts, stockings, and towels, and disturbing brushes, jars, and bottles. Monsieur
