“And this is mine.”
“It must be something bad if you can’t tell it to your father, Mademoiselle Grandet.”
“It is good, and I cannot tell it to my father.”
“At least you can tell me when you parted with your gold?”
Eugenie made a negative motion with her head.
“You had it on your birthday, hein?”
She grew as crafty through love as her father was through avarice, and reiterated the negative sign.
“Was there ever such obstinacy! It’s a theft,” cried Grandet, his voice going up in a crescendo which gradually echoed through the house. “What! here, in my own home, under my very eyes, somebody has taken your gold!—the only gold we have!—and I’m not to know who has got it! Gold is a precious thing. Virtuous girls go wrong sometimes, and give—I don’t know what; they do it among the great people, and even among the bourgeoisie. But give their gold!—for you have given it to some one, hein?—”
Eugenie was silent and impassive.
“Was there ever such a daughter? Is it possible that I am your father? If you have invested it anywhere, you must have a receipt—”