human
Then the wolves had devoured her, and the birds had built their nests with the wool from her torn bed, and I took charge of her remains, and I only pray that our sons may never see any wars again.
gpt
There, my friend, I said to Labarbe,
human
Do you mean to say that you do not know Morin's story, and you come from La Rochelle?
gpt
You knew Morin, did you not, and you remember his large linen-draper's shop on the _Quai de la Rochelle_?
human
Yes, perfectly.
gpt
All right, then. You must know that in 1862 or 63 Morin went to spend a fortnight in Paris for pleasure, or for his pleasures, but under the pretext of renewing his stock, and you also know what a fortnight in Paris means for a country shopkeeper: it makes his blood grow hot. The theater every evening, women's dresses rustling up against you, and continual excitement; one goes almost mad with it. One sees nothing but dancers in skin-tights, actresses in very low dresses, round legs, fat shoulders, all nearly within reach of one's hands, without daring or being able, to touch it, and one scarcely tastes some inferior dish, once or twice. And one leaves it, one's heart still all in a flutter, and one's mind still exhilarated by a sort of longing for kisses which tickles one's lips.
human
By Jove, what a pretty woman!
gpt
Good-bye