"Ah! ça, voyons les yeux!" said Criquet, rubbing his hands.
"'Her eyes are of a heavenly blue—' By the blood of my ancestors!" exclaimed the Marquis, "I was sure of it. 'Her hair is perfectly black, and her complexion positively transparent.' Heavens! what incomparable charms!" cried the Marquis, dropping the letter, as if paralysed by the force of the description.
"Let us see the rest," said Criquet, picking it up, and proceeding to decipher it's contents. "'Her teeth are like pearls;' (c'est bon, ça,) 'her figure graceful, and her hands and feet models for a sculptor.' Cien milagros!" "Why she's an angel Criquet," exclaimed the Marquis. "I like the hands and feet," said Criquet. "But stay, there's more to come. 'This young person,'" continued he, "is remarkably prudent, and entertains a peculiar preference for individuals of a certain age.'" "The very thing we want," said Criquet. "I admire her taste," said the Marquis. "Mais allez toujours, mon enfant."
"'But,'" continued Criquet, ("ah! voilà ce vilain mot qui se fourre partout,) 'but I will not conceal from you, that this lovely creature is ambitious.'"
