"Why, I should say that you and he sing duets together perfectly, especially the one from Feydeau's _Muletier_; you know, the one with 'What joy! what joy!' and that ends with 'coucou! coucou!'" "Oh! you tire me, monsieur, with your 'coucous!'" "He plays quadrilles on the piano." "Who doesn't play now?" "Faith, I don't; to be sure, I have always had so much business on hand that I have had to neglect my taste for music. At all events, Dalville is bright, pleasant, always in good spirits." "There are days when he can't say three words in succession!" "Let me tell you that I myself, when I'm very much occupied with some important matter, am not as agreeable as usual--that happens to everybody. To return to Dalville--he is rich--and young.--By George! I have an idea! such a delicious idea!" "What is it then, monsieur?" "I must find a wife for him." "A wife for Monsieur Auguste? Why on earth should you interfere? Is it any of your business?" "Isn't it my business to look after other people's business? This may turn out a profitable affair." "Oh! don't go to making matches, monsieur, I beg! As if you knew anything about such things!" "I flatter myself that I do, madame." "A business agent make marriages--nonsense! that would be absurd!--Have you thought about your gun, monsieur?" "Yes, madame, I told Baptiste to clean it; and Dalville promised to bring that old soldier of his, Bertrand; he will teach me how to use it; for a wolf has been seen in the neighborhood, you know, madame; and that is very unpleasant because it keeps one uneasy all the time." "I don't suppose that that makes it impossible for you to beat up the wood?" "Oh, no! on the contrary, madame, it was I who suggested that measure of safety. I propose to see the wolf, madame." "You will do well, monsieur." The conversation was interrupted by a noise in the next room. "Ah! here's our dear Dalville at last, no doubt," said Monsieur Destival. Madame said nothing, but she prepared a little pouting expression which would surely imply what she thought. Meanwhile the person whom they had heard did not enter the room, but continued to rub his feet on the doormat. Monsieur Destival threw the door of the salon open, and found, instead of Auguste, a little man of some fifty-five years, with a light wig, broad-brimmed straw hat, coat cut almost square, short breeches, and fancy stockings, who was rubbing and rerubbing his feet on the mat in the reception room. "Ah! it's our neighbor, Monsieur Monin!" said Monsieur Destival, at sight of the little man. At the name of Monin, Madame Destival made an impatient gesture, muttering: "What a bore! why need he have come!" "Hush! be still, madame! He still has a drug store to sell, and he wants to buy a house. I propose that he shall dine with us." With that, Monsieur Destival turned back toward the door, where Monsieur Monin was still rubbing his feet on the mat.