“Will it injure my daughter, my good monsieur?” she asked, casting a cat-like glance of doubt and uneasiness upon him.

“In no way, madame.  But, in any case, it seems to me that your daughter does not treat you well.  A girl who is loved by so rich a man as Ferragus ought to make you more comfortable than you seem to be.”

“Ah, my dear monsieur, just think, not so much as one poor ticket to the Ambigu, or the Gaiete, where she can go as much as she likes.  It’s shameful!  A girl for whom I sold my silver forks and spoons! and now I eat, at my age, with German metal,—­and all to pay for her apprenticeship, and give her a trade, where she could coin money if she chose.  As for that, she’s like me, clever as a witch; I must do her that justice.  But, I will say, she might give me her old silk gowns,—­I, who am so fond of wearing silk.  But no!  Monsieur, she dines at the Cadran-Bleu at fifty francs a head, and rolls in her carriage as if she were a princess, and despises her mother for a Colin-Lampon.  Heavens and earth! what heedless young ones we’ve brought into the world; we have nothing to boast of there.  A mother, monsieur, can’t be anything else but a good mother; and I’ve concealed that girl’s ways, and kept her in my bosom, to take the bread out of my mouth and cram everything into her own.  Well, well! and now she comes and fondles one a little, and says, ‘How d’ye do, mother?’ And that’s all the duty she thinks of paying.  But she’ll have children one of these days, and then she’ll find out what it is to have such baggage,—­which one can’t help loving all the same.”

“Do you mean that she does nothing for you?”

“Ah, nothing?  No, monsieur, I didn’t say that; if she did nothing, that would be a little too much.  She gives me my rent and thirty-six francs a month.  But, monsieur, at my age,—­and I’m fifty-two years old, with eyes that feel the strain at night,—­ought I to be working in this way?  Besides, why won’t she have me to live with her?  I should shame her, should I?  Then let her say so.  Faith, one ought to be buried out of the way of such dogs of children, who forget you before they’ve even shut the door.”

She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket, and with it a lottery ticket that dropped on the floor; but she hastily picked it up, saying, “Hi! that’s the receipt for my taxes.”

Jules at once perceived the reason of the sagacious parsimony of which the mother complained; and he was the more certain that the widow Gruget would agree to the proposed bargain.

“Well, then, madame,” he said, “accept what I offer you.”

“Did you say two thousand francs in ready money, and six hundred annuity, monsieur?”

“Madame, I’ve changed my mind; I will promise you only three hundred annuity.  This way seems more to my own interests.  But I will give you five thousand francs in ready money.  Wouldn’t you like that as well?”

“Bless me, yes, monsieur!”