‘I say,’ he began again, ‘I wonder whether my venerable sire is in the habit of taking his fling?’
It was an idea so monstrous, so inconceivable, that of Léonard Astier-Réhu ‘taking his fling,’ that his wife could not help smiling in spite of herself. No, on that point she thought there was no need for uneasiness. ‘Only, you know, he has turned suspicious and mysterious, and “buries his hoard.” We have gone too far with him.’
They spoke low, like conspirators, with their eyes upon the carpet.
‘And grandpapa,’ said Paul, but not in a tone of confidence, ‘could you try him?’
‘Grandpapa? You must be mad!’
Yet he knew well enough what old Réhu was. A touchy, selfish man all but a hundred years old, who would have seen them all die rather than deprive himself of a pinch of snuff or a single one of the pins that were always stuck on the lapels of his coat. Ah, poor child! He must be hard up indeed before he could think of his grandfather.
‘Well, you would not like me to try —— ——.’ She paused.
‘To try where?’
‘In the Rue de Courcelles. I might get something in advance for the tomb.’
‘There? Good Heavens! You had better not!’