“It was a mere scrawl,” he said impatiently.
“No, no—it was beautiful. I would have given anything for it!”
Monsieur Maurice laughed, and patted me on the cheek.
“Nonsense, petite, nonsense!” he said. “It was only fit for the fire. I will make you a better drawing, if you remind me of it, to-morrow.”
When I told this to my father—and I used to prattle to him a good deal about Monsieur Maurice at supper, in those days—he tugged at his moustache, and shook his head, and looked very grave indeed.
“The South of France!” he muttered, “the South of France! Sacré coeur d'une bombe! Why, the usurper, when he came from Elba, landed on that coast somewhere near Cannes!”
“And went to Monsieur Maurice's house, father!” I cried, “and that is why the King of France has taken Monsieur Maurice's house away from him, and given it to a stranger! I am sure that's it! I see it all now!”
But my father only shook his head again, and looked still more grave.
“No, no, no,” he said, “neither all—nor half—nor a quarter! There's more behind. I don't understand it—I don't understand it. Thunder and Mars! Why don't we hand him over to the French Government? That's what puzzles me.”