And, in fact, it at first seemed very probable that his words would be verified. In the first house I entered a woman was sitting near the door peeling potatoes; five or six children of different ages were in the corners; the husband, a great fellow with a bad physiognomy, was seated near the window, smoking his pipe, with his hat on and both hands in his pockets. “Good morning, madam!” said I pleasantly, as I entered. “Good morning, sir!” The woman never even raised her head; the children looked at me, thrusting their fingers up their noses; the husband gave an ill-omened grunt. This sounded badly. But at that instant an idea struck me that I can only call brilliant, although that word may cause my modesty to be questioned. The eldest child, a horrible-looking urchin of ten or twelve years old, frightfully dirty and half naked, was evidently poking the fire when I entered; he still held the stick he had been using for the purpose. “Madam,” I continued still more pleasantly, “would you kindly allow your nephew to give me a light for my cigar?” Instantly the woman raised her head and pushed away the locks of yellow hair that covered her eyes. “My nephew!” said she. “But I haven’t a nephew!” “But that boy there--is he not your nephew?” “That boy there--he’s my son!” “Your son--that great boy! But I can only beg your pardon. Upon my word, you look so young that I should never have supposed that you had a son of that age. I am a foreigner--a Frenchman. You must excuse my blunder.” I had scarcely finished my pretty little speech, when everything in the house was reversed. First the mother, then the father, jumped from their chairs to offer them to me. “Ah, your honour,” said the woman, “how can you say I look young? I am three years older than my husband, blessed be the saints! I have seven children, your honour. Pat, finish there, are you going to give his honour a light for his cigar?”