“Nonsense!” Monsieur Josserand ended by saying, completely out of patience. “I know your business; you make no end of money, and you would be rolling in wealth if you did not squander it in the way you do. I ask you for nothing myself. It was Eléonore who persisted in applying to you. But allow me to tell you, Bachelard, that you have been fooling us. Every Saturday for fifteen years past, when I come to look over your books for you, you are forever promising me——”
The uncle interrupted him, and violently slapped himself on the chest.
“I promise? impossible! No, no; let me alone, you’ll see. I don’t like being asked, it annoys me—it makes me ill. You’ll see one day.”
Madame Josserand herself could get nothing further out of him. He shook their hands, wiped away a tear, talked of his soul and of his love for the family, imploring them not to worry him any more, and swearing before heaven that they would never repent it. He knew his duty; he would perform it to the uttermost. Later on, Berthe would know how her uncle loved her.
“And what about the dotal insurance,” asked he, in his natural tone of voice, “the fifty thousand francs you had insured the little one for?”
“It has been dead and buried for fourteen years past. You have been told twenty times already that when the fourth premium fell due, we were unable to pay the two thousand francs.”
“That doesn’t matter,” murmured he, with a wink, “the thing is to talk of this insurance to the family, and then get time for paying the dowry. One never pays a dowry.”
But the uncle mistook his meaning, and went on to show that it was quite a usual thing.
“Never, I tell you I One gives something on account, and then merely pays the interest. Look at Monsieur Vabre himself. Did our father ever pay you Eléonore’s dowry? why, no, of course not. Every one sticks to his money; its only natural!”
“In short, you advise me to commit a most abominable action!” cried Monsieur Josserand. “I should lie; it would be a forgery to produce the policy of that insurance——”
Madame Josserand stopped him. The idea suggested by her brother had rendered her grave. She was surprised she had not thought of it herself.
“Dear me! how excited you become, my dear. Narcisse has not told you to forge anything.”