“No, uncle.”
“Upon your word?”
“Upon my word!”
M. Mouillard drew himself up, beaming:
“Ah! Thank you for that speech, Fabien; you have relieved me of a great weight.”
With one corner of his napkin he wiped away two tears, which, having arisen in time of war, continued to flow in time of peace.
“If Mademoiselle Jeanne, in addition to all her other perfections, brings you fortune, Fabien, if your future is assured—”
“My dear Monsieur Mouillard,” broke in the Academician with ill-concealed satisfaction. “My colleagues call me rich. They slander me. Works on numismatics do not make a man rich. Monsieur Fabien, who made some investigations into the subject, can prove it to you. No; I possess no more than an honorable competence, which does not give me everything, but lets me lack nothing.”
“Aurea mediocritas,” exclaimed my uncle, delighted with his quotation. “Oh, that Horace! What a fellow he was!”
“He was indeed. Well, as I was saying, our daily bread is assured; but that’s no reason why my son-in-law should vegetate in idleness which I do not consider my due, even at my age.”