“Come! Come, Marguerite!” said the husband; “Do not be out of humour with the gentleman for asking a simple question. Had you not looked so cross, he would never have thought you old enough to have a son of three and twenty: but you see how many years ill-temper adds to you!⁠—Excuse my wife’s rudeness, Monsieur. A little thing puts her out, and she is somewhat displeased at your not thinking her to be under thirty. That is the truth, is it not, Marguerite? You know, Monsieur, that age is always a ticklish subject with a woman. Come! come! Marguerite, clear up a little. If you have not sons as old, you will some twenty years hence, and I hope, that we shall live to see them just such lads as Jacques and Robert.”

Marguerite clasped her hands together passionately.

“God forbid!” said she; “God forbid! If I thought it, I would strangle them with my own hands!”

She quitted the room hastily, and went upstairs.