“Oh, I forgot,” said Cartaret. “It is in English. Let me translate.” He translated.
When Charlie looked up from his reading, he found Fourget busily engaged in polishing his spectacles. Perhaps the old man’s eyes were weak and could not bear to be without their glasses: they certainly were moist.
“I do not see so well as I once saw,” the dealer was explaining: his voice was very gruff indeed. “You are wholly certain that this is no trick which one plays upon you?”
Cartaret was wholly certain.
Fourget made a valiant attempt at expressing his congratulations in a mere Anglo-Saxon handshake. He found it quite inadequate, and this annoyed him.
“The world,” he growled, “loses a possibly fair artist and gets an idle millionaire.”
“You get a new shop,” vowed Cartaret. “Don’t shake your head! I’ll make it a business proposition: I’ve had enough trouble by being suspected of charity. I’m going to buy an interest, and I shan’t want my money sunk in anything dark and unsanitary.”
Fourget shook his gray head again.
“Thank you with all my heart, my friend,” he said; “but no. This little shop meets my little needs and will last out my little remaining days. I would not leave it for the largest establishment on the boulevards.”
They talked until Cartaret again bethought him of the café in the rue Jacob.