“Well,” cried he, after a pause, determined to put a bold front on the matter, “what if I did find a lady in the same railway carriage with me, going to Verneuil? I hadn’t hired the whole train, or even a whole carriage. And what if she was a widow, and good-looking! And suppose to-day, in the pursuit of science, I go to St. Germains and quite by accident I find the same lady in the compartment with me? What does that mean except a series of accidents?”
“Yes, a series of accidents,” replied Léontine, with an arch glance. The minx seemed to have no more conscience about teasing poor Papa Bouchard than had her rattlebrain of a husband. “It is remarkable that accidents like these always happen in cycles. I should be willing to wager that a third accident is now brewing, and you will see that prim little widow again before the week is out. I shouldn’t be surprised if this change of quarters had something to do with it!”
“Léontine!” said Papa Bouchard, indignantly, but that heedless young person only laughed and said:
“I’ll tell Victor that. How the dear boy will laugh! The fact is, I don’t know whether I can let Victor associate with you or not—you might lead him off into your own primrose path of dalliance with widows!”
Was ever anything so exasperating! Papa Bouchard ground his teeth—he had a great mind to throw over the whole business of Léontine’s money and her affairs, only he knew it would please her too well. His grim meditations were interrupted by Léontine tapping him on the shoulder and saying, “Now, will you hand me over the cheque for the whole amount of those bills—six thousand francs—or must I take this”—touching the paste necklace round her throat—“to the pawnbroker?”
“You certainly can’t expect me to give you a cheque until I have looked into these swindling bills,” answered Papa Bouchard.
“I certainly do,” tartly said Léontine, “and you will either hand me over immediately a cheque for six thousand francs, or I will drive to Aunt Céleste’s before I go to the opera—and I think you’ll have an early visit from her in the morning. I shall tell her about this mysterious necklace, and the pretty widow you have no doubt been running after for at least six months——”
“I never saw her in my life until yesterday,” cried Monsieur Bouchard.
“So you say. Perhaps you have been pursuing her for a year.”
Monsieur Bouchard tore his hair, but there was no help for him. After an angry pause, he sat down, wrote out a cheque for six thousand francs, which he slammed down on the table, and Léontine picked up with a joyful cry. And then, with a desperate attempt at an authoritative manner, he said, sternly,