He pleaded poverty. For instance, he had bought a whole stock of horsehair, thinking that the price of horsehair would go up; but not at all; the price had fallen lower still, and he had been obliged to dispatch them at a loss. And he pounced on his books, opened his ledgers, and insisted on showing the invoices, it was ruination.
“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?”
Madame Josserand shrugged her shoulders.
“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.”
Monsieur Josserand rose indignantly.