“Papa, my dear father, you are as rich as ever you can be, so what does it matter?”
“Who says I’m rich? Nonsense! Absurd! And then look at the worries I have. All the trouble and inquest over that man’s death, and through his sheer crass obstinacy.”
“Why bring that up again, father, dear?”
“Don’t say father. Call me papa. Whenever you begin fathering me, it means that you are going to preach at me and bully me, and have your own way.”
“Then, papa, dear, why bring that up again?”
“I didn’t. It’s brought up and thrust under my very nose. Why is that woman here?”
“Papa—”
“Now, it’s of no use. Claude: that man regularly committed suicide out of opposition to me. He destroyed a stone worth at least a hundred pounds by using that tearing dynamite, which smashes everything to pieces; and then, forsooth, he charges me in his dying moments with murdering him, and the wretched pack under him take up the cry and bark as he did. Could anything be more unreasonable?”
“No, dear, of course not. But the poor fellow was mad with agony and despair. It was so horrible for him, a hale, strong man, to be cut down in a moment.”
“He cut himself down. It would not have happened if he had done as I ordered.”