“I have my own boxes.”
“They are not sufficiently secure for the acknowledgment of such a sum. Consider. One day you may have to reckon with Monsieur de Cadanet’s heirs, who may not be so obliging as Monsieur de Cadanet.”
Consider! As if this knowledge had not weighed upon him ever since that autumn day. Not once had he ventured to Paris. Now at last he was safe, and why not satisfy his mother? He turned to her gaily.
“Study a woman if you want to learn persistence. Well, mother, wait for me, and if Nathalie comes, ask her to stroll towards the river, while you and I make a pilgrimage to the strong-box.”
If Mme. de Beaudrillart hoped to have feasted her eyes upon the paper, she was mistaken. What her son brought and deposited in the safe was a long blank envelope, securely scaled. She suggested in vain that something on the cover should mark its contents.
“Unnecessary. You and I are both likely to remember.”
“As to remembering, yes. But it seems foolish. What possible objection can you have?”
“A whim.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart remarked that a whim was unmethodical.
“Oh, I admit it. But as Monsieur Bourget is not likely ever to rummage among these papers—”