M. Bourget gave a contemptuous grunt. “Oh, that nonsense! Better stay at home and look after the maids. Well, as I was saying, I’ll walk out some day, and if they can spare you, you shall drive me back. Fauvel will learn that I am there.”
“It will be very kind of you, dear father, and most useful to Léon.”
“Useful, yes; I rather flatter myself I am useful if I ain’t ornamental,” said the ex-builder, standing up and sticking his thumbs into his waistcoat, and swelling. “Poissy without money and tumbling to pieces was a sorry sight, but Poissy with a good stock of francs at her back—ah, ha, there’s a Poissy for you! That’s hotter than the ornamental. Besides, you can do all that. And that reminds me that I’ve a little something to say to Madame de Beaudrillart about you.”
“About me?” She looked at him nervously.
“Yes, yes, never mind. I know what I’m talking of. You leave me alone, and do what you’re told. That’s all. Whatever happens, nobody now can make you anything but a De Beaudrillart. Of Poissy.” And by his action he added, unmistakably, the words, “My daughter.”
Told of M. Bourget’s intentions, Léon laughed.
“Oh, he’ll do well enough!” he exclaimed, “and you can smooth over anything that wants smoothing. I’ll tell Félicie that if she carries on that absurd farce of stuffing her ears with wool, I’ll refuse to subscribe to her next pilgrimage. That’ll frighten her. I dare say Fauvel will be the better for not having everything his own way.”
“And, Léon—”
“Well?”
“You’ll be here yourself, won’t you?”