put on my gold necklace?

"That would have given my portrait a smarter look. Sophie Mitoux had
hers painted with a coral comb and earrings. How shabby this style is!"

"I beg of you, my good Reine, let me follow my own fancy; an artist is a
being of inspiration and spontaneity. Meanwhile, you make your bust too
prominent; there is no necessity for you to look as if you had swallowed
a whale. L'art n'est pas fait pour toi, tu n'en as pas besoin. Upon my
word, you have a most astonishing bust; a genuine Rubens."

Madame Gobillot was an austere woman, though an innkeeper, and watched
over her daughter with particular care, lest any ill-sounding or
insiduous expression should reach her child's ear. Considering the
company which frequented the house, the task was not easy. So she was
shocked at the young man's last words, and although she did not quite
understand his meaning, for that very reason she thought she scented a
concealed poison more dangerous for Mademoiselle Reine than the awful
words used by the drivers. She dared not, however, show her displeasure
to a customer, and one who seemed disposed to spend money freely; and,
as usual in such circumstances, she vented her displeasure upon the
persons immediately under her charge.

"Hurry now, Catherine! Will you never finish setting the table? I told
you before to put on the Britannia; these gentlemen are used to eating
with silver. Listen to me when I am talking to you. Who washed these
glasses? What a shame! You are as afraid of water as a mad-dog. And you!
what are you staring at that chicken for, instead of basting it? If
you let it burn you shall go to bed without any supper. If it is not
provoking!" she continued, in a scolding tone, visiting her stewpans one
after another, "everything is dried up; a fillet that was as tender as
it could be will be scorched! This is the third time that I have diluted
the gravy. Catherine! bring me a dish. Now, then, make haste."

"One thing is certain," interrupted the artist, "that Gerfaut is making
a fool of me. I do not see what can have become of him. Tell me, Madame
Gobillot, are you certain that an amateur of art and the picturesque,
travelling at this hour, would not be eaten by wolves or plundered by
robbers in these mountains?"

"Our mountains are safe, Monsieur," replied the landlady, with offended
dignity; "except for the pedler who was assassinated six months ago and
whose body was found in the Combe-aux-Renards--