address to you a few well-chosen remarks . . . Come, Son-in-law, put on your dressing gown . . . and take your stand at my right . . .
Helene (Hastily).—Oh, no! Papa!
Nonancourt.—Very well; remain inside the screen; and kindly lend me your devout attention . . . Bobin, my myrtle! (Makes Helene sit down, goes on, holding the myrtle; with emotion.) Children. (Hesitates a moment, and blows his nose noisily; goes on.) Children!
V'ezinet (To Nonancourt, and at his right).—Do you know where the boot-jacks are?
Nonancourt (Angrily).—In the cellar; go hang yourself!
Vezinet.—Ah, thanks! (Begins to search again.)
Nonancourt.—Where was I—?
Bobin (Sniffling).—You were saying: "In the cellar; go hang yourself!"
Nonancourt.—Oh, yes. (Changing the myrtle to the other arm.) Children, it is a very tender moment for a father, the moment when he gives away his dear daughter, the hope of his old days . . . the staff of his gray hairs . . . (Turning to the screen.) This tender blossom belongs, now, to you, my Son-in-law! Love it, cherish it, protect it! (Aside, angrily.) He doesn't answer—the clodhopper! (To Helene.) Thou, my daughter, seest this shrub. I potted it the day of thy birth . . . Let it be an emblem for thee! (With increasing emotion.) May its evergreen branches ever remind thee . . . that thou hadst a father ... a husband . . . children! May its branches . . . evergreen . . . (Changing his tone, aside.) Never mind; I've forgotten the rest!
(In the meanwhile Bobin, and the ladies have drawn out hand kerchiefs, and are all weeping.)
Helene (Throwing herself into her father's arms).—Oh, Papa!
Bobin (Blubbering).—Oh, Uncle, how foolish you are!
Nonancourt (To Helene, after having blown his nose).—I felt the need of addressing to you a few well-chosen remarks . . . Now, let's go to bed . . .
Helene (Trembling).—Papa, don't leave me!
Bobin.—Don't let's leave her!
Nonancourt.—Be calm, my darling; I foresaw your embarrassment—I have ordered fourteen cot-beds for the adults—the children can sleep in the cabs . . .
Bobin.—Wow!
