“N—n—no,” faltered Papa Bouchard. This was another facer for him.
Léontine had not the slightest doubt that Papa Bouchard could give a perfectly rational and correct account of how he came by the necklace—it was probably the property of some client—but seeing a fine chance to hold Papa Bouchard up to obloquy and to lecture him, she promptly determined to give him the benefit of her pretended suspicions. She therefore rose with great dignity, gathered her drapery about her, and looking significantly at Papa Bouchard, said:
“You will pardon me for saying that this has a most singular appearance, and I shall lose no time in informing Aunt Céleste.”
Papa Bouchard turned pale. Was ever such a diabolical trap laid for an innocent man? He was not at all sure, if he gave the true account of how he came by the stones, that Captain de Meneval would not carry out his threat and deny the whole business. The fellow had actually laughed while he was making the threat, and seemed to regard it as an excellent joke to impair the peace and honor of a respectable elderly gentleman. Papa Bouchard got up, sat down again, and groaned.
“Léontine,” he said, to that professedly indignant young woman, “you don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t understand,” replied Léontine, with unkind emphasis.
“It was this way—I was out at St. Germains the other day—” Papa Bouchard was floundering hopelessly, but a bright thought struck him—“the day of the meeting of the Society of French Antiquarians. Very interesting time we had—several specimens of the paleozoic age were found——”
“And this match to my necklace was among them? Fie, Papa Bouchard!”
“Not at all. Will you let me speak? I say I was out at St. Germains for the meeting of the Society of French Antiquarians. The curator of the museum is a great friend of mine—he has an old mother—finest old lady you ever saw—eighty years old, bedridden and stone blind, but as young as a daisy, full of life and talk—it’s a treat to see her. My friend wanted a birthday present for her, and I had seen this necklace in a shop window in the Avenue de l’Opéra—and I proposed to—to—to—” Papa Bouchard faltered.
“Buy it for an old lady, eighty years old and bedridden? Oh, Papa Bouchard, try again!”