DUPONT. Now, now, don’t excite yourself. Don’t lose your head. The thing isn’t done yet. Listen. For the last fortnight, at the Merchants’ Club, Mairaut has been taking me aside and talking about Julie—asking me this, that, and the other. As you may suppose, I let him run on. To-day we were talking together about the difficulty of marrying one’s children. ‘I know something of that,’ said he. ‘So do I,’ I said. Then he grinned at me and said: ‘Supposing Madame Mairaut and I were to come in one of these days to discuss the question with you and Madame Dupont?’ You may imagine my delight. I simply let myself go. But no, when I say I let myself go, I do myself an injustice. I kept a hand over myself all the time. ‘One of these days. Next week, perhaps?’ I said, carelessly, just like that. ‘Why not to-day?’ said he. ‘As you please,’ said I. ‘Six o’clock?’ ’Six o’clock.’ What do you think of that? MME. DUPONT. But M. Mairaut—the son, I mean—Monsieur—what is his Christian name? DUPONT. Antonin, Antonin Mairaut. MME. DUPONT. Antonin, of course. I was wondering. Is M. Antonin Mairaut quite the husband we should choose for Julie? DUPONT. I know what you mean. His life isn’t all that it should be. There’s that woman— MME. DUPONT. So people say. DUPONT. But we needn’t bother about that. There’s another matter, however, that _is_ worth considering—though, of course, you haven’t thought of it. Women never do think of the really important things. MME. DUPONT. You mean money? The Mairauts haven’t any. They only keep a couple of clerks altogether in their bank. They may have to put up the shutters any day. DUPONT. Yes: but there’s someone else who may put his shutters up first. Antonin’s uncle. The old buffer may die. And he has two hundred thousand francs, and never spends a penny. MME. DUPONT. True. But— DUPONT. But. But. There you go. You’re determined never to see anything that is more than an inch before your nose. I don’t blame you for it. Women are like that. MME. DUPONT. But suppose he disinherits Antonin? DUPONT. You forget I shall be there. I flatter myself I shall know how to prevent Uncle Maréchal from disinheriting his nephew. Besides, what is Uncle Maréchal? MME. DUPONT. Antonin’s uncle. DUPONT. You don’t understand. I ask you what he _is_. What is his position, I mean. MME. DUPONT. He’s head clerk at the Prefecture. DUPONT. Exactly. And he could get me the contract for all the printing work at his office. Thirty thousand francs a year! How much profit does that mean? MME. DUPONT. Five thousand francs. DUPONT. Five thousand? Ten thousand! If one is only to make the ordinary trade profit, what’s the good of Government contracts? MME. DUPONT. I’m afraid young M. Mairaut’s character—