But isn't it better that I should go to Paris?
My mother could find an excuse to send me there,--an uncle who wants me, or a dying aunt, or a lady who sends for me.

But I must have some money for the journey and for--you know what." This extraordinary piece of news was far more startling to du Bousquier than to the Chevalier de Valois.

Suzanne's fiction introduced such confusion into the ideas of the old bachelor that he was literally incapable of sober reflection.

Without this agitation and without his inward delight (for vanity is a swindler which never fails of its dupe), he would certainly have reflected that, supposing it were true, a girl like Suzanne, whose heart was not yet spoiled, would have died a thousand deaths before beginning a discussion of this kind and asking for money.
"Will you really go to Paris, then ?" he said.
A flash of gayety lighted Suzanne's gray eyes as she heard these words; but the self-satisfied du Bousquier saw nothing.
"Yes, monsieur," she said.
Du Bousquier then began bitter lamentations: he had the last payments to make on his house; the painter, the mason, the upholsterers must be paid.

Suzanne let him run on; she was listening for the figures.