affected.

René. I wanted to warn you that Ulric will be on your right, and if he plays the fool—

Madame Nérisse. Very well. Is it time?

René. Yes, come. [To Madame Guéret] You won't forget the trumpets?

Madame Guéret. No, no. All the same, you'd better help me.

René. I will, I will.

Féliat. You know, if she wants one, she'll find a husband at Evreux.

Madame Guéret. Without a penny!

Féliat. Without a penny! She made a sensation at the ball at the sous-préfecture. She's extremely pretty.

Madame Guéret. She's young.

Féliat. Monsieur Gambard sounded me about her.

Madame Guéret. Monsieur Gambard! The Monsieur Gambard who has the house with the big garden?

Féliat. Yes.

Madame Guéret. But he's very rich.

Féliat. He's forty-nine.

Madame Guéret. She'll have to take what she can get now.

Féliat. And I think that Monsieur Beaudoin——

Guéret. But he's almost a cripple!

Madame Guéret. She wouldn't do so well in Paris.

Guéret. She wouldn't look at either of them.

Féliat. We must try and make her see reason.

René enters busily. Lucienne follows him. Féliat is standing across the guichet through which Barberine is to speak. René pulls him away without ceremony.

René. Excuse me, Uncle; don't stand there before the little window.

Féliat. Beg pardon. I didn't know.

René. I haven't a moment.

Féliat. I've never seen you so busy. At your office they say you're a lazy dog.

Madame Guéret. Probably René has more taste for the stage than for business.

René [laughing] Rather! [To Lucienne] Now, it's time. Come. Lift it. Not yet! There! Now!

Lucienne [speaking through the guichet] "If you want food and drink, you must do like those old women you despise—you must spin."

René. Capital!

Lucienne [to Féliat] Please forgive me, Monsieur, I've not had time to speak to you.

Féliat. Why, it's Mademoiselle Lucienne, Thérèse's friend, who came and stayed in the holidays! Fancy my not recognizing you!

Lucienne. It's my dress. I do like playing this part. I have to say that lovely bit—you know—the bit that describes the day of the ideal wife. [She recites, sentimentally] "I rise and go to prayers, to the farmyard, to the kitchen. I prepare your meal; I go with you to church; I read a page or two; I sew a while; and then I fall asleep happy upon your breast."

Féliat. That's good, oh, that's very good! Barberine—now, who wrote that?

Lucienne. Alfred de Musset.

Féliat. Ah, yes; to be sure, Alfred de Musset. I read him when I was young. You often find his works lying about in pretty bindings.

René. Uncle, Uncle; I beg your pardon, but don't speak so loud. We can