Anatole Durand sat down, knees well apart, his hands resting on them. Marie Castener had drawn up a chair on the other side of the table; she began to darn stockings with an air of phlegmatic detachment that left these other two free to talk.
“So you are like the rest of them, Manon,” said Durand, looking her straight in the face.
“How is that, monsieur?”
She glanced at him and went on with her work.
“Of course—I was unpopular. That busybody, Durand! Always wanting something new!”
“You know Beaucourt as well as I do, monsieur,” said Manon.
Anatole Durand sat squarely on his chair. He was a square man all over, square in the boots, the head, the jaw, rather like a little copy of Thiers, that irrepressible, compact bit of energy.
“Well, they can hate me as much as they please, but I always was a man who must push a stone out of the way or cut down a rotten tree. I’m an old fellow, Manon, but my work is over there. I have another ten years left.”
There was a little quiver of emotion in his voice.
“I have no children, you know, and plenty of money. I am not one of the ruined ones. You can’t take your money away with you when you die. Did ever an old fellow have such an opportunity?”