“If they had guillotined him, it might have been no such great matter; but imagine if those rascals had touched Poissy! Now I have finished. Are you going to drive me back to Tours?”
“At any time you like; but you will have some coffee first?”
“Yes, since one may as well save one’s pocket,” said M. Bourget with a sigh, thinking of the absinthe. “Besides, I have to see madame.”
Nathalie wondered anxiously why this was said. She had not long to wait, for when he had gulped down the portion of black coffee, served in a tiny Sèvres cup of finest quality, and set it with an unsatisfied air upon the table to his left, he opened his subject.
“You may tell Monsieur de Beaudrillart, madame, that I have put Fauvel upon the right tack at last.”
“I imagine, monsieur, that Fauvel will not venture to change any plan of which my son has already approved?”
“Ah, Monsieur de Beaudrillart knows nothing about it—how should he? I do,” added M. Bourget, simply. “As for Fauvel, he understands a few things, but not all. However, that is settled, and I shall sleep better to-night for knowing that it has been seen to. There was something else, madame, I wished to speak about. I asked my daughter to take me to the picture-gallery.”
“Are you thinking of insisting also upon the portraits being cleaned, monsieur!” asked Claire, with a laugh.
“Not my business,” said M. Bourget imperturbably. “But it’s a pity they should stop short as they do. Eighty years ago the last! One would not have it said that the De Beaudrillarts had come to an end.”
“Of late years, monsieur, their fortunes have diminished.”