"I am sure of it, Monsieur Martin-Guerre," said Carbon Barreau, with an air of conviction. "However, it doesn't offend you, does it, to have me speak in such terms of the scoundrel, since you are not he, my good host?"
"Not in the least," said Arnauld, decidedly ill at ease, however.
"Ah, Monsieur," continued the uncle, who was rather inclined to chatter, "how many times have I congratulated myself, in speaking to his poor weeping mother, on having remained unmarried, and having had no children to dishonor my name and ruin my life, as that vile good-for-nothing did for her."
"Let me see; that is true," said Arnauld to himself. "Uncle Carbon had no children,—no heirs, that is to say."
"What are you thinking, Master Martin?" asked the stranger.
"I was thinking," Arnauld replied in his sweetest tones, "that in spite of your assertions to the contrary, Messire Carbon Barreau, you would be very happy to-day if you had a son, or even, in default of a son, this same evil-disposed nephew, whom you seem to regret so little, but who would at least be something for you to love, and somebody to whom you could hand down your property when you die."
"My property?" said Carbon Barreau.
"Yes, to be sure, your property," replied Arnauld. "You who scatter pistoles around with so lavish a hand cannot be poor; and this Arnauld, whom I resemble, would be your heir, I suppose. Pardieu! I am inclined to regret to a certain extent that I am not he."
"Arnauld du Thill, if he is not hung, would really be my heir," returned Carbon Barreau, gravely. "But he will derive no great advantage from that fact, for I am not rich. I offer a pistole for the privilege of resting a while and for a little refreshment, because I am overborne with weariness and hunger; but that does not prevent my purse from being light,—too light, alas!"
"Hum!" said Arnauld, incredulously.