"A fine security, the life of a painter! Where did painting land his father, who was _famous?_" "And suppose you had lost a matter of fifty thousand francs, you who certainly have more than----" "Hush! you should never mention the amount of a man's fortune. When such figures are in the air, the walls and trees, even the flower-pots, have ears." "You agree that the amount is so large that the Sèvres affair would have been a mere trifle, don't you?" "Do you propose to make me out a miser?" "I know that you are not one, but I shall believe that you are cruel, and that you like to see people suffer whom you believe to be your enemies." "Well, isn't that my right? Since when have we been forbidden to seek revenge?" "Since we began to be something more than savages." "Am I a savage then?" "Yes." "Be off, you are tiresome after a while! Look out that I don't set myself against you too?" "I defy you to do it." "Why so?" "Because you know that I am the only person on earth who is just a little attached to you and devoted to you, in spite of all your shortcomings." "You see! You admit now that Julien detests me." "Make him love you; then you will have two friends instead of one." "Ah! yes! you want me to redeem the house! Very good, when Julien is an orphan, I will look after him, on condition that he never mentions his mother to me." "Perhaps you would like to have him kill her, would you? I tell you, uncle, you are mad, nothing more nor less. You are immeasurably vain, and you have the prejudices of the nobility in a more virulent form than any of the people who have ancestors. You were not in love with Mademoiselle de Meuil, I am sure; but her rank made you long to supplant your brother with her. You were frantically jealous of poor André, not because of that lovely and lovable young woman, but because of the parchments which she brought him with her dowry, and because of the sort of lustre that was reflected on him. In a word, you do not hate the nobles, you adore them, you envy them, you would give all your millions to have been _born_ somebody, and your outbreaks of rage against them on every occasion are simply the spleen of a discarded lover, just as your hatred of my aunt is the spleen of a wounded and humiliated plebeian. That is your mania, my poor uncle; every man has his own, they say, but this one makes you cruel, and I am very sorry for you." Perhaps the ex-armorer felt that Marcel was right; consequently he was about to get more angry than ever, but Marcel turned his back on him with a shrug, and went away, paying no heed to his invectives. In reality Marcel was very glad to be in possession at last of the ideas and recollections which underlay his uncle's actions. He promised himself that he would take advantage of his knowledge to induce him to mend his ways. Did he succeed? The sequel will tell us. "Madame," said Marcel to the Comtesse d'Estrelle the next morning, "you must sell the pavilion."