"But it is very kind of you, cousin," she added. "How much to I owe you for this little trifle?"
Pons quivered inwardly at the question. He had meant the trinket as a return for his dinners.
"I thought that you would permit me to offer it you——" he faltered out.
"What?" said Mme. Camusot. "Oh! but there need be no ceremony between us; we know each other well enough to wash our linen among ourselves. I know very well that you are not rich enough to give more than you get. And to go no further, it is quite enough that you should have spent a good deal of time in running among the dealers—"
"If you were asked to pay the full price of the fan, my dear cousin, you would not care to have it," answered poor Pons, hurt and insulted; "it is one of Watteau's masterpieces, painted on both sides; but you may be quite easy, cousin, I did not give one-hundredth part of its value as a work of art."
To tell a rich man that he is poor! you might as well tell the Archbishop of Granada that his homilies show signs of senility. Mme. la Presidente, proud of her husband's position, of the estate of Marville, and her invitations to court balls, was keenly susceptible on this point; and what was worse, the remark came from a poverty-stricken musician to whom she had been charitable.
"Then the people of whom you buy things of this kind are very stupid, are they?" she asked quickly.
"Stupid dealers are unknown in Paris," Pons answered almost drily.
"Then you must be very clever," put in Cecile by way of calming the dispute.
"Clever enough to know a Lancret, a Watteau, a Pater, or Greuze when I see it, little cousin; but anxious, most of all, to please your dear mamma."