A single corner of his garden, nearest the pavilion occupied by Madame Thierry, afforded a pleasant promenade. That corner he had devoted for twenty years to the acclimatation of exotic ornamental trees. They were beautiful now, and cast considerable shade; but Monsieur Antoine, as it was no longer necessary to take particular pains with them, had almost lost his interest in them, and much preferred a shoot of pine or acacia just raised under glass.
His hothouse was wonderfully beautiful. He hurried thither to bury the bitter memories which Marcel had recalled. He went in and out among his favorite plants, the lilies, and, after assuring himself of the good health of those which were in bloom, he halted beside a small porcelain vase wherein an unknown bulb was just beginning to put forth shoots of a dark and glossy green.
"What will this be?" he thought. "Will it mark an epoch in the history of gardening, like so many others that owe their fame to me? It seems a long while since anything has happened in my garden, and people don't talk about me so much as they ought to."
Meanwhile Marcel went away, deep in thought, for Monsieur Antoine Thierry's miserliness was of a very curious sort. The curious thing about it was that Monsieur Thierry was not miserly. He did not hoard his money, he did not lend money and never had done so, he denied himself nothing that caught his fancy, and he even did a good deed sometimes under the spur of self-love. How did it happen that he had let slip so excellent an opportunity of purchasing his late brother's property for his nephew? That generous performance would have given him much more celebrity than the future Antonia Thierrii. That is precisely the problem which Marcel was trying to solve. He knew that the old armorer had always been jealous, not of his artist brother's talent, which he despised, but of his renown and social success; but should not that jealousy have died with old André? Ought his widow and son to have that unfortunate inheritance forced upon them?
An idea passed through Marcel's mind; he retraced his steps and interrupted Monsieur Antoine's horticultural reveries.
"By the way, my gallant uncle," he said in a playful tone, "don't you want to buy the hôtel d'Estrelle pavilion?"
"The pavilion is for sale, and you didn't tell me, you idiot?"
"I forgot it. Well, how much will you give for it?"
"What is it worth?"
"I have told you a hundred times: to Comtesse d'Estrelle, who has just accepted it as a gift, it is worth ten thousand francs; to you, who want it and need it, it is worth twice that. It remains to be seen whether the countess won't ask three times ten thousand."