“Jabber away amongst yourselves,” she growled, “I’m going to have a talk with Père Moche.”
The talk became general, while a very animated discussion began between Nini and her reputed uncle.
“If you think it’s any fun,” began the young woman, “this marriage you’ve brought about, I tell you I’m about fed up with it already. I don’t give myself eight and forty hours before I hook it from my husband.”
Moche shrugged his shoulders:
“Nini, you’re a born fool: a bit of patience, my lass, and you’ll see Père Moche was in the right.” Then, in a lower tone: “You’re far too pretty and too clever to spend all your young days among this crowd, a parcel of rotters who’re good for nothing but talking loud and getting drunk. I’ve told you, haven’t I, I’d make you rich, I’d make a great lady of you, more than that, a queen of beauty, a queen of Paris, a queen of society! Play your cards, Nini, listen to me....”
A gleam of covetousness flashed in the girl’s eyes.
“I shall be rich?” she questioned, “I shall have the nibs?”
Moche went on:
“Rich, and better than rich, my girl; but for that don’t go and play the fool; just keep yourself in hand for another nine months. Your brat must come into the world strong and healthy; after that there’ll be something new to think about, you can trust Père Moche for that!”
While the young Englishman’s queer helpmeet and the enigmatical personage who had passed himself off as her uncle for his own ends were thus debating future projects, Jérôme Fandor, under pretence of paying every attention to the customers’ wants, was never far from the table, picking up scraps of talk as he hovered near. And in spite of himself, Fandor could not keep his eyes off M. Moche’s face. As he stood over him, he could, for the first time, observe otherwise than through the glass of his spectacles the mysterious old fellow’s eyes. And they disconcerted the journalist extremely, their clear, cold, steely glance perplexed him beyond measure. Most certainly Fandor could trace no likeness there, he had no recollection of having seen that expression before; yet it seemed to him that a person like the old business agent of the Rue Saint-Fargeau, whose caricature of a face betrayed the man’s commonness of type, could not have such a look of the eyes as he actually had.