“Voilà!” cried Bigourdin, delighted. “Those are names familiar to every Frenchman.” Then his brow clouded. “Well, Monsieur Martin, there is something I would say to you. What profession does my good brother-in-law exercise in Paris?”
Martin and Corinna exchanged glances.
“I scarcely know,” said Corinna.
“Nor I,” said Martin.
“It is on account of my niece, his daughter, that I ask. You permit me to sit down for a moment?” He drew a chair. “You must understand at once,” said he, “that I have nothing against Monsieur Fortinbras. I love him like myself. But, on the other hand, I also love my little niece. She is very simple, very innocent, and does not appreciate the subtleties of the great world. She adores her father.”
“I can quite understand that,” said Martin, “and I am sure that he adores her.”
“Precisely,” said Bigourdin. “That is why I would like you to have no doubt as to the profession of my brother-in-law. You have never, by any chance, Mademoiselle Corinne, heard him called ‘Le Marchand de Bonheur’?”
“Never,” said Corinna, meeting his eyes.
“Never,” echoed Martin.
“Not even when he advised you to come here? It is for Félise that I ask.”