And he looked at his wife as if to ask her advice, at the same time murmuring:
"Indeed, that is something! One cannot deny it. That is not bad."
The woman stammered:
"Surely that helps out a little."
Then, trembling and embarrassed:
"Madame the Countess no doubt gives presents also in the month of January and on Saint Fiacre's day?"
"No, nothing."
"It is the custom, however."
"It is not mine."
In his turn the man asked:
"And for the weasels and pole-cats?"
"No, nothing for those either; you can have the skins."
This was said in a dry, decisive tone, that forbade further discussion. And suddenly:
"Ah! I warn you, once for all, that I forbid the gardener to sell or give vegetables to any one whomsoever. I know very well that it is necessary to raise too many in order to have enough, and that three-fourths of them are wasted. So much the worse! I intend to allow them to be wasted."
"Of course, the same as everywhere else!"
"So it is agreed? How long have you been married?"
"Six years," answered the woman.
