"You have little cause to regret the fact, probably," replied the old man, dividing the slice of ham into two very unequal portions, and giving the larger to his son. "The dinners one gets at wayside inns are generally very expensive and very poor."
As he spoke, he handed Louis a thick slice of bread, and the father and son began to eat with great apparent zest, washing down their food with big draughts of cold water.
"Tell me about your journey, my son," remarked the old man.
"There is very little to tell, father. My employer gave me a number of documents to be submitted to M. Ramon. He read and studied them very carefully, I must say. At least he took plenty of time to do it,—five whole days, after which he returned the documents with numberless comments, annotations, and corrections."
"Then you did not enjoy yourself particularly at Dreux, I judge."
"I was bored to death, father."
"What kind of a man is this M. Ramon, that a stay at his house should be so wearisome?"
"The worst kind of a person conceivable, my dear father. In other words, an execrable old miser."
"Hum! hum!" coughed the old man, as if he had swallowed the wrong way. "So he is a miser, is he? He must be very rich, then."
"I don't know about that. One may be stingy with a small fortune as well as with a big one, I suppose; but if this M. Ramon's wealth is to be measured by his parsimony, he must be a multi-millionaire. He is a regular old Harpagon."