There was a long, heavy silence between us. I began to stride across the room and stopped near the chimney, where a dying fire was smouldering. Thence I could see Massignac in a mirror, without his perceiving it; and his face, in repose, surprised me by a gloomy expression which was not unknown to me. I had probably seen some photograph of him in Bérangère's possession.
"It's curious," I said, "that your daughter should not have written to you."
I had turned round very briskly; nevertheless he had had time to expand his mouth and to resume his smile:
"Alas," he said, "the dear child hardly ever wrote to me and cared little about her poor daddy. I, on the other hand, am very fond of her. A daughter's always a daughter, you know. So you can imagine how I jumped for joy when I read in the papers that she had come into money. I should at last be able to devote myself to her and to devote all my strength and all my energy to the great and wonderful task of defending her interests and her fortune."
He spoke in a honeyed voice and assumed a false and unctuous air which exasperated me. I questioned him:
"How do you propose to fulfill that task?"
"Why, quite simply," he replied, "by continuing Noël Dorgeroux's work."
"In other words?"
"By throwing open the doors of the amphitheatre."
"Which means?"