moors of Klaarvatsch, with those lousy little beggars who are bearing this evening the torches for the Guild. Well-built as you see him, Sir, is it not a shame P And with all that a cry-baby! He begins to bray, feels ill, when a pig is killed at the fair, or when the butcher marks with red chalk the backs of those sheep that are to be converted into mutton! Guidon is a girl spoiled. My real boy is our Claudie. Ah! she's the sort of girl to get through work for you!"
"It is a pity; he has in spite of that a very intelligent air," remarked the Dykgrave, with as much indifference as possible. "And he plays the bugle admirably too! Why don't you make him seriously a musician?"
"Oh, yes! Now, you're joking, Count. He is incapable of sticking to anything profitable. Upon my honour, so as to get rid of him, I have already tried to hand him over to the mountebanks. Perhaps he'd have made a good buffoon. Meanwhile, he's nothing but a source of damage and slights to me. Thus, he has taken it into his head to scrawl over with charcoal the newly whitewashed walls of the farm under pretext of drawing our cattle!"
"Would he then have any talent for
