“What! that is all you can find to say?”
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.”
“Of course not,” murmured the uncle. “There is no occasion to show any documents.”
“It is simply a question of gaining time,” continued she. “Promise the dowry, we shall always manage to give it later on.”
Then the worthy man’s conscience spoke out. No! he refused; he would not again venture on such a precipice. They were always taking advantage of his complacency, to get him to agree little by little to things which afterward made him ill, so deeply did they wound his feelings. As he had no dowry to give, he could not promise one.
Bachelard was strumming on the little window with his fingers, and whistling a march, as though to show his great contempt for such scruples. Madame Josserand had listened to her husband, her face all pale with an anger which had been slowly rousing, and which suddenly exploded.