But Pradès had seated himself in a fauteuil, crossed his legs and hung over his knee his sombrero, on which he drummed a minstrel march.
"My dear Monsieur Rovère, it is a last appeal for funds. I believe that America is better than Paris. And in order to return there or to do what I ought here, I must have what I have not—money!"
"I am tired of giving you money!" Rovère quickly replied.
And between these two men, bound by the remembrance of the dead girl—a bond burdensome to the one, imposed upon by the other—a storm of bitter words and harsh sentiments arose and kindled fierce anger in both.
"I tried to let you remain in peace, my dear Consul. But hunger has driven the wolf out of the woods. I am very hungry. And here I am!"
"I have nothing with which to feed your appetites. You are nothing but a burden to me."
"Oh! Ingratitude!" and Pradès, with his Argentine accent, spoke his sister's name.
"My father died and Carlotta herself entrusted me to your care, my dear brother-in-law!"
It seemed to the sick man, irritated as he was, that this name—which he had buried deep in his heart with chaste tenderness—was a supreme insult.
"I forbid you to evoke that memory! You do not see, then, that the memory of that dear and saintly creature is one of the griefs of my life!"