“Not at all. But I think of the future, which you young people are too apt to forget, and I want to see matters put straight. Now that you can afford it, that must be your business. Show me the land that was sold last year.”
Somewhat to his dismay, Léon found that his father-in-law was perfectly acquainted with all his enforced sales, and the value of the property parted with. His remarks were shrewd. “You had no reason to blame Monsieur Georges, who was an honest man;” and at another time, “You set store on your wine. In your place I should have preferred to keep the vineyard,” or “Ah, Paris ate up this farm. She swallows without difficulty, our fine Paris!” Léon, who was not easily abashed, felt as if there were something terrible in the square ungainly figure, marching from point to point, and seeing everything. Had Claire not been there, Nathalie would have attempted a diversion; as it was she remained silent, hoping, for her husband’s sake, that the ordeal once over would not be repeated. At last M. Bourget stood still.
“Now for the château,” he said.
Here, except where his sharp eyes espied falling plaster or a stain of wet, the awe of Poissy was upon him, and placed him at a disadvantage. It was soon evident, however, that the simplicity of the furniture shocked his sense of what was fitting, and in Nathalie’s own room he gave this feeling a voice.
“Hum, ha, oh, very nice, very nice; but couldn’t you have had a little more gold about?”
“You know I was never very fond of gold,” she said, with a smile.
“If you didn’t like it in our house, you couldn’t have any objection here. It seems to me that you want cheering up a bit. Your curtains, now. Wouldn’t tapestry be richer than chintz?”
“Oh, my curtains are charming!” she said, brightly. “Admit that nothing could be prettier than the whole effect! But you must come into the salon; that room will delight you.”
In the salon sat Mme. de Beaudrillart, very upright, and with more state than was ordinary. The coffee was brought in an antique silver service. M. Bourget looked at his cup with admiration, and choked down his desire to ask for a teaspoonful of absinthe. Léon had vanished to avoid hearing possible sharp speeches, and nothing could have been more frigid and uncomfortable than the conversation when the guest again descanted upon the work of repair which should be speedily undertaken at Poissy.
“My son must do what he thinks best, monsieur,” announced Mme. de Beaudrillart, with her grandest air; “at any rate, he is more likely to know what is needed than a stranger. For myself, I think the less done the better.”