“Yes, aunt, on business,” declared Savinien, looking down as if he expected a rebuff. “Oh, oh, oh!” said Madame Desvarennes, “you know our agreement; I give you an allowance--” “I renounce my income,” interrupted Savinien, quickly, “I wish to take back my independence. The transfer I made has already cost me too dear. It’s a fool’s bargain. The enterprise which I am going to launch is superb, and must realize immense profits. I shall certainly not abandon it.” While speaking, Savinien had become animated and had regained his self-possession. He believed in his scheme, and was ready to pledge his future. He argued that his aunt could not blame him for giving proof of his energy and daring, and he discoursed in bombastic style. “That’s enough!” cried Madame Desvarennes, interrupting her nephew’s oration. “I am very fond of mills, but not word-mills. You are talking too much about it to be sincere. So many words can only serve to disguise the nullity of your projects. You want to embark in speculation? With what money?” “I contribute the scheme and some capitalists will advance the money to start with; we shall then issue shares!” “Never in this life! I oppose it. You! With a responsibility. You! Directing an undertaking. You would only commit absurdities. In fact, you want to sell an idea, eh? Well, I will buy it.” “It is not only the money I want,” said Savinien, with an indignant air, “it is confidence in my ideas, it is enthusiasm on the part of my shareholders, it is success. You don’t believe in my ideas, aunt!” “What does it matter to you, if I buy them from you? It seems to me a pretty good proof of confidence. Is that settled?” “Ah, aunt, you are implacable!” groaned Savinien. “When you have laid your hand upon any one, it is all over. Adieu, independence; one must obey you. Nevertheless, it was a vast and beautiful conception.” “Very well. Marechal, see that my nephew has ten thousand francs. And you, Savinien, remember that I see no more of you.” “Until the money is spent!” murmured Marechal, in the ear of Madame Desvarennes’s nephew. And taking him by the arm he was leading him toward the safe when the mistress turned to Savinien and said: “By the way, what is your invention?” “Aunt, it is a threshing machine,” answered the young man, gravely. “Rather a machine for coining money,” said the incorrigible Marechal, in an undertone. “Well; bring me your plans,” resumed Madame Desvarennes, after having reflected a moment. “Perchance you may have hit upon something.” The mistress had been generous, and now the woman of business reasserted herself and she thought of reaping the benefit. Savinien seemed very confused at this demand, and as his aunt gave him an interrogative look, he confessed: “There are no drawings made as yet.” “No drawings as yet?” cried the mistress. “Where then is your invention?” “It is here,” replied Savinien, and with an inspired gesture he struck his narrow forehead.