He was
pasting his specimens for him and stood a chance of marrying a very
plain, pious cousin. Nana shed no tears for him. She simply said to the
count:
"Eh, little rough, another rival less! You're chortling today. But he
was becoming serious! He wanted to marry me."
He waxed pale, and she flung her arms round his neck and hung there,
laughing, while she emphasized every little cruel speech with a caress.
"You can't marry Nana! Isn't that what's fetching you, eh? When they're
all bothering me with their marriages you're raging in your corner. It
isn't possible; you must wait till your wife kicks the bucket. Oh, if
she were only to do that, how you'd come rushing round! How you'd
fling yourself on the ground and make your offer with all the grand
accompaniments--sighs and tears and vows! Wouldn't it be nice, darling,
eh?"
Her voice had become soft, and she was chaffing him in a ferociously
wheedling manner. He was deeply moved and began blushing as he paid her
back her kisses. Then she cried:
"By God, to think I should have guessed! He's thought about it; he's
waiting for his wife to go off the hooks! Well, well, that's the
finishing touch! Why, he's even a bigger rascal than the others!"
Muffat had resigned himself to "the others.
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