Doubtless he had long realized the futility of a struggle between his daughter, his terrible son-in-law, and himself.
"Another bottle of wine for which you get five francs out of me," he added, in a peevish tone.

"But it shall be the last.

I shall give my custom to the Cafe de la Paix." "Hold your tongue, papa!" remarked his fair and fat daughter, who bore some resemblance to a Roman matron.

"You need a shirt, and a pair of clean trousers, and a hat; and I want to see you with a waistcoat.
That's what I take the money for." "I have told you again and again that such things would ruin me," said the old man.

"People would think me rich and stop giving me anything." The bottle brought by Marie put an end to the loquacity of the old man, who was not without that trait, characteristic of those whose tongues are ready to tell out everything, and who shrink from no expression of their thought, no matter how atrocious it may be.
"Then you don't want to tell where you filched that money ?" said Tonsard.