Somebody coughed significantly in the next room by way of warning that he could hear.

“Very well, let him come in!” said Mme. Camusot, looking at Madeleine with another shrug.

“You are here so early, cousin, that you have come in upon us just as mother was about to dress,” said Cecile Camusot in a coaxing tone.  But Cousin Pons had caught sight of the Presidente’s shrug, and felt so cruelly hurt that he could not find a compliment, and contented himself with the profound remark, “You are always charming, my little cousin.”

Then, turning to the mother, he continued with a bow: 

“You will not take it amiss, I think, if I have come a little earlier than usual, dear cousin; I have brought something for you; you once did me the pleasure of asking me for it.”

Poor Pons!  Every time he addressed the President, the President’s wife, or Cecile as “cousin,” he gave them excruciating annoyance.  As he spoke, he draw a long, narrow cherry-wood box, marvelously carved, from his coat-pocket.

“Oh, did I?—­I had forgotten,” the lady answered drily.

It was a heartless speech, was it not?  Did not those few words deny all merit to the pains taken for her by the cousin whose one offence lay in the fact that he was a poor relation?

“But it is very kind of you, cousin,” she added.  “How much to I owe you for this little trifle?”

Pons quivered inwardly at the question.  He had meant the trinket as a return for his dinners.

“I thought that you would permit me to offer it you——­” he faltered out.

“What?” said Mme. Camusot.  “Oh! but there need be no ceremony between us; we know each other well enough to wash our linen among ourselves.  I know very well that you are not rich enough to give more than you get.  And to go no further, it is quite enough that you should have spent a good deal of time in running among the dealers—­”

“If you were asked to pay the full price of the fan, my dear cousin, you would not care to have it,” answered poor Pons, hurt and insulted; “it is one of Watteau’s masterpieces, painted on both sides; but you may be quite easy, cousin, I did not give one-hundredth part of its value as a work of art.”

To tell a rich man that he is poor! you might as well tell the Archbishop of Granada that his homilies show signs of senility.  Mme. la Presidente, proud of her husband’s position, of the estate of Marville, and her invitations to court balls, was keenly susceptible on this point; and what was worse, the remark came from a poverty-stricken musician to whom she had been charitable.

“Then the people of whom you buy things of this kind are very stupid, are they?” she asked quickly.

“Stupid dealers are unknown in Paris,” Pons answered almost drily.

“Then you must be very clever,” put in Cecile by way of calming the dispute.

“Clever enough to know a Lancret, a Watteau, a Pater, or Greuze when I see it, little cousin; but anxious, most of all, to please your dear mamma.”