The lieutenant of light cavalry responded to his friend’s question with a vague gesture.  Raoul Chamblard continued: 

“However, it’s my father’s fixed idea.  There must be Chamblards after me.  And as papa has but one son, it’s to me he looks to do what is necessary.”

“Well, do what is necessary.”

“But I am only twenty-four, my dear fellow, and to marry at twenty-four is hard.  It seems to me that I’m still entitled to a little more fun, and even a good deal.”

“Well, have your fun.”

“That’s just what I’ve done up to now.  I have had a first-rate time!  But I’ve taste only for expensive amusements.  I don’t know how to enjoy myself without money, and I haven’t a cent.  Do you understand?  Not a cent!”

“You?  You are very rich.”

“A great mistake!  Upon coming of age, three years ago, I spent what was left me by my mother.  Mother wasn’t very rich; she was worth six hundred thousand francs, not more.  Papa made almost a love-match.  The six hundred thousand francs vanished in three years, and could I decently do anything else as the son of my father?  He is powerfully rich!”

“That’s what’s said.”

“And it’s very true.  He has a dozen millions which are quite his own, and can’t be hurt by an accident; and his bank still goes on, and brings him in, one year with another, besides the interest on his dozen millions, three or four hundred thousand francs more.  Nothing is more solid than the Chamblard bank; it’s honest, it’s venerable.  Papa isn’t fair to me, but I’m fair to him.  When you have a father in business, it’s a good thing when you go out not to be exposed to meet eyes which seem to say to you, ‘My dear fellow, your father has swindled me.’  Papa has but one passion:  from five to seven every day he plays piquet at his club, at ten sous a point, and as he is an excellent player, he wins seven times out of ten.  He keeps an account of his games with the same scrupulous exactitude he has in all things, and he was telling the day before yesterday that piquet this year had brought him in six thousand five hundred francs over and above the cost of the cards.  He has a seat in the orchestra at the opera, not for the ballet, but for the music only; he never goes on the stage—­neither do I, for that matter.  Dancers don’t attract me at all; they live in Batignolles, in Montmartre; they always walk with their mothers; they completely lack charm.  In short, my father is what one calls a good man.  You see I continue to be fair to him.  Besides, I’m always right.  Yes, it’s a very good thing to have an honorable father, and Papa Chamblard is a model of all virtues, and he accumulates for me with a zeal! but I think, just at present, he accumulates a little too much.  He has cut off my income.  No marriage, no money.  That’s brief and decisive.  That’s his programme.  And he has hunted up a wife for me—­when I say one, I should say three.”