"Those little ailments don't mean anything--on the contrary. I see plenty
of little folks, I do; and so just remember what I tell you, yours will
become an extraordinarily fine child. There won't be better."
When Madame Menoux went off, La Couteau had lavished such flattery and
such promises upon her that she felt quite light and gay; no longer
regretting her money, but dreaming of the day when little Pierre would
come back to her with plump cheeks and all the vigor of a young oak.
As soon as the door had closed behind the haberdasher, Celeste began to
laugh in her impudent way: "What a lot of fibs you told her! I don't
believe that her child so much as caught a cold," she exclaimed.
La Couteau began by assuming a dignified air: "Say that I'm a liar at
once. The child isn't well, I assure you."
The maid's gayety only increased at this. "Well now, you are really
comical, putting on such airs with me. I know you, remember, and I know
what is meant when the tip of your nose begins to wriggle."
"The child is quite puny," repeated her friend, more gently.
"Oh! I can believe that. All the same I should like to see the doctor's
prescriptions, and the soap and the sugar.
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