“Nineteen hundred francs! And you no doubt expect me to pay it out of your wife’s income! I wonder what Léontine would say to this!”
“That’s just what I’ve been wondering, too,” replied de Meneval, somewhat dolefully. “Léontine is the dearest girl in the world, but she is a woman, after all. I can prove to her that I have never given a franc’s worth to any other woman, except something to eat and drink, but all the same I’d just as soon she would think I spent my Melun evenings sitting in my quarters, with her picture before me and reading up on ballistics, as an artillery officer should.”
“And would you deliberately impose on her innocence in this respect?” asked Monsieur Bouchard, indignantly.
“My dear sir,” calmly replied de Meneval, “you have never been married. If you had, you would not talk about a man’s imposing on his wife’s innocence. Love is clairvoyant, and most men know what their wives wish to believe, and gratify them accordingly. It’s a very complex subject, and needs to be dealt with intelligently.”
“I think our standard of intelligence is not the same,” grimly responded Monsieur Bouchard. “But when I tell Léontine about this nineteen hundred francs due at the Pigeon House, I trust she will be able to deal with you intelligently.”
“I am afraid she will,” replied de Meneval, with some anxiety; “but after it’s paid I know I can persuade her that it was not the least actual harm—just a little lark in the way of killing time.”
“And may I ask, since you speak so confidently of its being paid, whom do you expect to pay it?”
“You, sir, of course,” replied de Meneval, taking a cigar out of Monsieur Bouchard’s case.
Papa Bouchard jumped as if a hornet had stung him. “I, sir? Since you have assumed this modest expectation, perhaps you anticipate that I will pay it out of my private income?”
“Oh, no, I mean out of my wife’s income,” replied de Meneval, puffing away at his cigar.