Bachelard became quite tender-hearted, and resumed, licking the brim of his liquor glass with the tip of his tongue:
“After all, my sole dream is to make the child happy! But there, my pot-belly tells me I am getting old; I’m like a father to her. I give you my word! if I found a very good young fellow, I’d give her to him, oh! in marriage, not otherwise.”
“You would make two happy ones,” murmured Duveyrier sentimentally.
It was almost stifling in the small apartment. A glass of chartreuse that had been upset had made the tablecloth all sticky, and it was also covered with cigar-ash. The gentlemen were in want of some fresh air.
“Would you like to see her?” abruptly asked the uncle, rising from his seat.
They consulted one another with a glance. Well, yes, they were willing, if it could afford him any pleasure; and their affected indifference hid a gluttonous satisfaction at the thought of going and finishing their dessert with the old fellow’s little one.
“Let’s get along, uncle! Which is the way?”
Bachelard became quite grave again, tortured by his ridiculously vain longing to exhibit Fifi, and by his terror of being robbed of her. For a moment he looked to the left, then to the right, in an anxious way. At length he boldly said:
“Well! no, I won’t.”
And he obstinately adhered to his determination, without caring a straw for Trublot’s chaff, nor even deigning to explain by some pretext his sudden change of mind. They therefore had to turn their steps in Clarisse’s direction. As it was a splendid evening, they decided to walk all the way, with the hygienic idea of hastening their digestion. Then they started off down the Rue de Richelieu, pretty steady on their legs, but so full that they considered the pavements far too narrow.