In this fashion young Raoul Chamblard talked while comfortably settled back in a large red velvet arm-chair. This happened on the 26th of March, 1892, in one of the parlor-cars of the express to Marseilles, which had left Paris at 8.50 that morning. It was now five minutes past nine. The train with much racket was crossing the bridge of Charentin. Young Chamblard was talking to his friend, Maurice Révoille, who, after a six weeks' leave, was going to join his regiment in Algeria.
The lieutenant of light cavalry responded to his friend's question with a vague gesture. Raoul Chamblard continued:
"However, it's my father's fixed idea. There must be Chamblards after me. And as papa has but one son, it's to me he looks to do what is necessary."
"Well, do what is necessary."
"But I am only twenty-four, my dear fellow, and to marry at twenty-four is hard. It seems to me that I'm still entitled to a little more fun, and even a good deal."
"Well, have your fun."
"That's just what I've done up to now. I have had a first-rate time! But I've taste only for expensive amusements. I don't know how to enjoy myself without money, and I haven't a cent. Do you understand? Not a cent!"
"You? You are very rich."
"A great mistake! Upon coming of age, three years ago, I spent what was left me by my mother. Mother wasn't very rich; she was worth six hundred thousand francs, not more. Papa made almost a love-match. The six hundred thousand francs vanished in three years, and could I decently do anything else as the son of my father? He is powerfully rich!"
"That's what's said."