No, he said nothing, he could find nothing to say. The draper then slowly continued: “I was sure this would grieve you. You must muster up courage. Pull yourself together a bit, don't let yourself be crushed in this way. Above all, understand my position. Can I hang such a weight on your neck? Instead of leaving you a good business, I should leave you a bankruptcy perhaps. No, it's only a scoundrel who would play such a trick! No doubt, I desire nothing but your happiness, but no one shall ever make me, go against my conscience.” And he went on for a long time in this way, swaying about in a maze of contradictions, like a man who would have liked to be understood at half a word and finds himself obliged to explain everything. As he had promised his daughter and the shop, strict probity forced him to deliver both in good condition, without defects or debts. But he was tired, the burden seemed to be too much for him, his stammering voice was one of supplication. He got more entangled than ever in his words, he was still expecting a sudden rally from Colomban, some heartfelt cry, which came not. “I know,” murmured he, “that old men are wanting in ardour. With young ones, things light up. They are full of fire, it's natural. But, no, no, I can't, my word of honour! If I gave it up to you, you would blame me later on.” He stopped, trembling, and as the young man still kept his head down, he asked him for the third time, after a painful silence: “You don't say anything?” At last, but without looking at him, Colomban replied: “There's nothing to say. You are the master, you know better than all of us. As you wish it we'll wait, we'll try and be reasonable.” It was all over. Baudu still hoped he was going to throw himself into his arms, exclaiming: “Father, do you take a rest, we'll fight in our turn; give us the shop as it is, so that we may work a miracle and save it! Then he looked at him, and was seized with shame, accusing himself of having wished to dupe his children. The deep-rooted maniacal honesty of the shopkeeper was awakened in him; it was this prudent fellow who was right, for in business there is no such thing as sentiment, it is only a question of figures. “Give me your hand, my boy,” said he in conclusion. “It's settled we won't speak about the marriage for another year. One must think of the business before everything.” That evening in their room when Madame Baudu questioned her husband as to the result of the conversation, the result of the conversation, the latter had resumed his obstinate wish to fight in person to the bitter end. He gave Colomban high praise, calling him a solid fellow, firm in his ideas, brought up with the best principles, incapable, for instance, of joking with the customers like those puppies at The Paradise. No, he was honest, he belonged to the family, he didn't speculate on the business as though he were a stock-jobber. “Well, then, when's the marriage to take place?” asked Madame Baudu.