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All the aristocracy of the plough ate there, at Mast' Jourdain's, the innkeeper and horse trader a shrewd rascal who had money. The dishes passed and were soon emptied, like the jugs of yellow cider. Every one told of his affairs, his sales and his purchases. They inquired about the crops. The weather was good for green stuffs, but a little wet for wheat.
All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Mait' Jourdain's, the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also and a sharp fellow who had made a great deal of money in his day. The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales. They exchanged news about the crops.
It is not uncommon for a comic character to condemn in general terms a certain line of conduct and immediately afterwards afford an example of it himself: for instance, M. Jourdain's teacher of philosophy flying into a passion after inveighing against anger; Vadius taking a poem from his pocket after heaping ridicule on readers of poetry, etc.
"You'd better let me see what he says, Mamma." Her mother had called to her to come into the study. She had Maurice Jourdain's letter in her hand. She looked sad and at the same time happy. "My darling, he doesn't want you to see it." "Is it as bad as all that?" "Yes. If I'd had my way you should never have had anything to do with him.
"Dear me," she said, "I didn't know I'd kept those letters." She slipped them from the rubber band and looked at them. You could see Uncle Victor's on the top, then Maurice Jourdain's. You heard the click of her tongue that dismissed those useless, unimportant things. The slim, yellowish letter at the bottom was Miss Lambert's. "Tt-tt " "Oh, let me see that."
She couldn't tell him that she pretended he was there when he was not there; that she created situations. He was ill, and she nursed him. She could feel the weight of his head against her arm, and his forehead hot hot under her hand. She had felt her hands to see whether they would be nice enough to put on Mr. Jourdain's forehead.
Maitre Hauchecorne remained speechless and grew more and more uneasy. Why had they called him "great rogue"? When seated at table in Jourdain's tavern he began again to explain the whole affair. A horse dealer of Montivilliers shouted at him: "Get out, get out, you old scamp! I know all about your old string." Hauchecorne stammered: "But since they found it again, the pocketbook!"
Morell we determined to write an oratorio that should attempt to supply the want. In order to make our libretto as plausible as possible, we adopted the dictum of Monsieur Jourdain's Maitre a danser: "Lorsqu'on a des personnes a faire parler en musique, il faut bien que, pour la vraisemblance, on donne dans la bergerie."
She had attached it to certain things and certain people: Mamma and Mark, Jenny, visits to Aunt Bella, the coming of Aunt Charlotte and Aunt Lavvy and Uncle Victor, the things people would say and do which they had not said and not done: when she was older she had attached it to Maurice Jourdain and to Mark still and Mamma; to going back to Mamma after Dover; to the unknown houses in Morfe; to Maurice Jourdain's coming; then to Mark's coming, to Lindley Vickers.
Accordingly, we here find a species of the comic whose varieties might be calculated beforehand. This we shall call the PROFESSIONAL COMIC. Instead of taking up these varieties in detail, we prefer to lay stress upon what they have in common. In the forefront we find professional vanity. Each one of M. Jourdain's teachers exalts his own art above all the rest.
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