J’ai faim, mon père. Pas de fricot. J’ai froid, ma mère. Pas de tricot. Grelotte, Lolotte! Sanglote, Jacquot! 42

She had hardly finished this couplet, when she exclaimed:⁠—

“Do you ever go to the play, Monsieur Marius? I do. I have a little brother who is a friend of the artists, and who gives me tickets sometimes. But I don’t like the benches in the galleries. One is cramped and uncomfortable there. There are rough people there sometimes; and people who smell bad.”

Then she scrutinized Marius, assumed a singular air and said:⁠—