He questioned André, the concierge, without arriving at fresh discoveries. The man only repeated what we already know; he might not even have remembered that, if it had not been taken down by a notary in the presence of M. de Cadanet, and therefore indelibly fixed on his memory. He remarked that he had never seen M. de Beaudrillart since, and was sorry for it.
“Ah, you got a good pourboire with no more trouble than letting him look at your master’s letters, eh?” said Charles, spitefully.
“As to that, the young baron often gave me a piece of twenty sous, when he could not afford it so well as other people,” returned the concierge, imperturbably.
“Twenty sous? No more! If you had been sharp, that look should have been worth more than twenty sous.”
“Ah, well, monsieur knows better than I. And as I asked for nothing, he might have given me nothing, and that’s all about it,” said André, retreating.
The cousins who hurried to the Rue du Bac knew nothing of the old count’s acquaintances, or to whom should be sent notice of his death. They were very glad of Amélie’s assistance, and the arrangement suited her methodical habits. She spent an afternoon with them, suggesting names, and directing envelopes. Charles hated anything which had to do with death, and pleaded the acuteness of his feelings to excuse his absence. When his wife came back he asked if it was finished.
“Yes, quite. The poor man, alas, had not many to mourn for him.”
“Who has?” asked Charles, cynically. “People please their friends better by dying than by living.”
“Oh, Charles!”
“Well, we need not discuss it. I, for one, should find it very inconvenient if Monsieur de Cadanet were to come to life again.”