“Ta, ta, ta, and this is our baby?” he would say, pursing his lips. “Only the other day he was tied into his chair, and here, if you please, he is driving with his mamma like a gentleman! The times march, upon my word!”
By this time Raoul would have plunged his hands into his grandfather’s pocket.
“Softly, softly, what now!” And, aside to his daughter, “He grows more of a Beaudrillart every day. What he will have, he will, one can see it in everything. Now then, little robber, little brigand, what are you stealing from your poor grandfather!”
And with a shout of delight, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief, Raoul would extract a whip, or a top, or a packet of chocolates, and run round the room chased by M. Bourget with terrific show of indignation. Later on, another ceremony was observed, which Nathalie herself always suggested, having discovered the pleasure it afforded to her father. All three would set forth for a walk through the streets of Tours, M. Bourget with his grandson by his side. The ostensible reason for the promenade was that Raoul should see the shops, and to this end they walked up and down the streets for half an hour. M. Bourget did not, at these times, stop to converse with any of his friends, but he took care that they should see him, passed and repassed the café and his other most usual haunts, and would have been greatly disappointed had he not met Leroux, Docteur Mathurin, and at least one of the principal officials. If they went into the cathedral, where Raoul liked to look at the tomb of the little boy and girl princess with their watching angels, he would even make the concession of lifting him up to dip his small fingers into the stoup for holy-water. Then, while Nathalie knelt and prayed—little knowing, poor soul, how much at that very moment her prayers were needed!—the two would wander off into quiet corners, Raoul putting questions which his grandfather treasured jealously, to be repeated with shaking shoulders to the impatient Leroux.
“He must have an answer for everything,” M. Bourget would declare, and Leroux, who, as a father, suffered under the not unusual infliction himself, was expected to express amazement.
After this, it was necessary to stand in front of the cathedral, and scatter crumbs, brought for the purpose, to the pigeons; returning by way of the Rue Royale, that M. Bourget might be certain Raoul had not forgotten how Balzac was born in Number 39. Raoul knew it as well as his grandfather, by this time, but he would sometimes pretend forgetfulness in order to have his memory jogged by chocolates.
On this day the round was shorter, as Mme. Léon wished to be at home early to meet her husband.
“He will hear of the death of an old cousin,” she said, knowing her father’s interest in all Beaudrillart affairs—“Monsieur de Cadanet. I believe he was very old, but I do not think there had been any news sent of his illness, so that I do not suppose it was expected.”
“Ah,” said M. Bourget, “Cadanet. Yes. A branch. His grandmother was a Beaudrillart. Have they said much about it at Poissy?”
“Not to me,” she replied, briefly. “Léon, you know, is absent.”