She was delighted for many reasons, one of which was that the expenses of the prodigal son would necessarily be lessened. Anxiety as to the exhausted state of her finances made her bold enough to chide him at the dinner-table one day for having lost two thousand francs at the races that morning.
“You are severe, my dear,” said M. Fauvel with the carelessness of a rich man, who considered this sum a mere trifle. “Mamma Lagors won’t object to footing his bills; mammas are created for the special purpose of paying bills.”
And, not observing that his wife had turned pale at these jocular words, he turned to Raoul, and added:
“Don’t disturb yourself about a small sum like this, my boy; when you want money, come to me.”
What could Mme. Fauvel say? Had she not followed Clameran’s orders, and told her husband that Raoul was wealthy? She could not go now and tell him that he would never recover any money which he lent to a penniless spendthrift.
Why had she been made to tell this unnecessary lie?
She suspected the snare laid for her; but now it was too late to escape it: struggles would only more deeply entangle her in its meshes.
The banker’s offer was soon accepted. That same week Raoul went to his uncle’s bank, and boldly borrowed ten thousand francs.
When Mme. Fauvel heard of this piece of audacity, she wrung her hands in despair.
“What can he want with so much money?” she moaned to herself: “what wicked extravagance is it for?” For some time Clameran had kept away from Mme. Fauvel’s house. She decided to write and ask him to come and advise her as to what steps should be taken to check Raoul.