She’s in the garden I believe, picking up plums.
Those yellow balls that rain about one’s ears? I know them. You’ve seen her then? I bet She scolded you ... What have you been doing now?
TOBY-DOG, (self-conscious, turning away his wrinkled, toad-like face)
She told me to return to the house because—because I too, was eating plums.
She did well! You have depraved tastes—the tastes of men.
Say—no one ever sees me eating bad fish! And never, never will I understand how you can go into such fits over a dead frog, or that herb.
That’s it, I guess ... An herb—is medicine, isn’t it?
Medicine, indeed! Valerian ... but no you, can’t understand ... I’ve seen Her laugh and go on, as I do over the valerian, after having emptied a glass of fetid wine that jumped dangerously too. As for the dead frog—so dead that it seems a bit of dry russia leather in the form of a frog—it’s a sachet, impregnated with rare musk, with which I wish to scent my fur.
Oh, you talk very well—but She always scolds and says that you smell bad after it, and He says the same thing.
They’re nothing but Two-Paws, both of them. You, poor thing, belittle yourself by seeking to imitate them. You stand on your hind legs, wear a coat when it rains, eat plums—for shame!—and those big green balls, the malicious trees let fall sometimes, when I’m passing underneath.
Very likely. She picks one up and throws it down the path, crying: “Apple, Toby, apple,” and you rush after, in unseemly fashion, gasping for breath, looking like a fool, your tongue and your eyes sticking out....
TOBY-DOG, (scowling, head resting on his paws)
One takes one’s pleasures where one finds them.
KIKI-THE-DEMURE, (yawning, shows his pointed teeth and his palate of pink velvet)
I’m hungry. Dinner is surely late tonight. Suppose you look for Her?