Jean shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes, but it wakes up again, or, at least, it might wake up; one is not quite easy about it; but at forty-eight ..."
"Ah! that's your opinion. Well, it is twelve years ago now since my old friend Clagny was forty-eight. He must therefore be sixty at present, and I would wager anything that his heart has never been at rest—never. You understand me?" And then in a lower tone, so that Bijou, who was just talking to Bertrade, should not hear, she added: "Neither his heart nor he himself."
Jean laughed.
"Oh, well! he's a curiosity this friend of yours. Why does he not go about in a show? He would get some money."
"He has no need of money."
"He is rich, then?"
"Atrociously rich!"
"Well, but what's he got?"
"Sixteen thousand a year. Don't you consider that a fair amount?"