During supper the said lady d’Amboise made more than a hundred little signs in order to draw the good Braguelongne from the room where he was with the bride, but out came instead of the lieutenant the husband, to walk about in company with the mother of his sweet wife.  Now, in the mind of this innocent there had sprung up like a mushroom an expedient—­namely, to interrogate this good lady, whom he considered discreet, for remembering the religious precepts of his abbot, who had told him to inquire concerning all things of old people expert in the ways of life, he thought of confiding his case to the said lady d’Amboise.  But he made first awkwardly and shyly certain twists and turns, finding no terms in which to unfold his case.  And the lady was also perfectly silent, since she was outrageously struck with the blindness, deafness and voluntary paralysis of the lord of Braguelongne; and said to herself, walking by the side of this delicate morsel, a young innocent of whom she did not think, little imagining that this cat so well provided with young bacon could think of old—­

“This Ho, Ho, with a beard of flies’ legs, a flimsy, old, grey, ruined, shaggy beard—­beard without comprehension, beard without shame, without any feminine respect—­beard which pretends neither to feel nor to hear, nor to see, a pared away beard, a beaten down, disordered, gutted beard.  May the Italian sickness deliver me from this vile joker with a squashed nose, fiery nose, frozen nose, nose without religion, nose dry as a lute table, pale nose, nose without a soul, nose which is nothing but a shadow; nose which sees not, nose wrinkled like the leaf of a vine; nose that I hate, old nose, nose full of mud—­dead nose.  Where had my eyes been to attach myself to truffle nose, to this old hulk that no longer knows his way?  I give my share to the devil of this juiceless beard, of this grey beard, of this monkey face, of these old tatters, of this old rag of a man, of this—­I know not what; and I’ll take a young husband who’ll marry me properly, and . . . and often—­every day—­and well—­”

In this wise train of thought was she when the innocent began his anthem to this woman, so warmly excited, who at the first paraphrase took fire in her understanding, like a piece of old touchwood from the carbine of a soldier; and finding it wise to try her son-in-law, said to herself—­

“Ah! young beard, sweet scented!  Ah! pretty new nose—­fresh beard —­innocent nose—­virgin appeared—­nose full of joy it—­beard of springtime, small key of love!”

She kept on talking the round of the garden, which was long, and then arranged with the Innocent that, night come, he should sally forth from his room and get into hers, where she engaged to render him more learned than ever was his father.  And the husband was well content, and thanked Madame d’Amboise, begging her to say nothing of this arrangement.