"I didn't suppose I was forbidden to think," rejoined little Elina gravely, and without raising her eyes. "Of course not; thoughts are free, and they use their freedom! they're very lucky, our thoughts are; they can travel, they can run about the fields and go into whatever company they choose; while we have to sit here, planted on our chairs, and sew all day long! God! what fun! When shall I have a million a year, so that I can coddle myself and sleep and eat méringues all day? Oh! méringues--they're a high-toned delicacy, I tell you!" "What are they made of?" asked stout Julienne, looking at Laura, who replied with the utmost seriousness: "Preserved snails. The next time you go into a confectioner's, ask him for a snail méringue, and see how good it is!" "Come, come, mesdemoiselles, we mustn't talk so much. Madame will soon be back, and this ball dress don't get on at all; and, you know, we still have two wedding dresses to finish this week." "Two wedding dresses! Everybody seems to be getting married! I don't know why nobody marries me;--and you, Julienne, wouldn't you like to get married?" "Me? oh, no, mademoiselle! on the contrary, I'd hate it." "You would? Why, pray?" "Because my cousin told me that when you're married you can't sleep alone any more; and I like to kick my legs about in bed, and I know it would bother me to have someone with me." "Oh! what a simpleton you are, big Julienne! you sleep with your husband, and that don't prevent your kicking your legs about--not by any means!" "How do you know that, Mamzelle Laura? Are you married?" Mademoiselle Laura contented herself with an impatient gesture, muttering: "Do let me finish; you disturb me when I am trying to make Turkish points. Oh! what a sigh Elina just gave! Haven't you finished moving, young dreamer?" "Yes, mademoiselle; it was all done this morning." "Ah! that's why you came later than usual?" "I spoke to Mademoiselle Frotard about it." "Who moved you? Was it Sans-Cravate, the Lovelace of the cooks of the neighborhood?" "No, mademoiselle." "Then it must have been his mate--Jean Ficelle. He's a very clever youth. I sent him once to carry a letter to someone, on important business, and I saw that he was full of intelligence.--Pass me the Scotch thread, Sophie." "Oh! mesdemoiselles, you know very well that Elina has a messenger she always patronizes--one Paul, who puts on airs when we pass, which I consider altogether too cheeky; I propose to tell that young man of the people what I think of him some fine day!" "Isn't a messenger as good as other men?" muttered little Elina, angrily. "Why hasn't he the right to look at us?" "As good as other men! a messenger!" cried a young woman with an affected manner, a mocking smile, and a shrill voice; "fellows who live on street corners or in wine shops! Great God! if one of them should presume to stare at me very long, I'd soon show him his place."