Her last is my godchild,—the very image of Hotot, the very spit of him. I wish you could see her, she grows like a mushroom; she will be no fool: there will be do occasion to teach her any thing; she will know every thing."
"She is forward, indeed."
"Yes, and pretty: a little love! let her only be until she is as old as a fifteen sous piece, and I know she will bring her mother in as much money as she can carry. With a daughter one always has a resource."
"Certainly."
"Yes, yes, the good God will bless her, Emilie; and then she has not, for a long time, had any mishap with the men."
"Does the good God meddle with these things?"
"Ah, certainly, you chaps are unbelievers, you believe in nothing."
"You have some religion, then, mother Bariole."
"I hope I have: I do not like priests, but that is all this same. It is not eight days since I had a nine days' devotion made at Sainte-Geneviève for a safe passage of some liquor from Brussels, and the butt arrived safe and sound."
"And the end of the wax candle, have you burnt that?"
"Hold your tongue, you heathen."
"I will lay a bet that you have some Easter cake at your bed-head."
"A little, my boy! people should not live like brutes."
Bariole, who did not like to be thwarted about her creed, began to call to Emilie.
"Come, make haste," she cried; "wait, my son, I am going to see if she has finished."
"That's right, for I am in a hurry." Emilie soon appeared with a corporal of artillery, who, without looking behind him, immediately took leave of her.
"Since he did not ask for his dram," observed Bariole, "we will put it back into the bottle."
