Oscar’s mother had tried to convince the old man that Oscar was very fond of him, and she was always talking of the silver mug and spoon and the beautiful suit, of which nothing now survived but the waistcoat. But these little insinuating attentions did Oscar more harm than good with so cunning an old fox as Uncle Cardot. Old Cardot had not been devoted to his late lamented, a bony red-haired woman; also he knew the circumstances of the deceased Husson’s marriage to Oscar’s mother; and without looking down on her in any way, he knew that Oscar had been born after his father’s death, so his poor nephew seemed an absolute alien to the Cardot family. Unable to foresee disaster, Oscar’s mother had not made up for this lack of natural ties between the boy and his uncle, and had not succeeded in implanting in the old merchant any liking for her boy in his earliest youth. Like all women who are absorbed in the one idea of motherhood, Madame Clapart could not put herself in Uncle Cardot’s place; she thought he ought to be deeply interested in such a charming boy, whose name, too, was that of the late Madame Cardot.
“Monsieur, here is the mother of your nephew Oscar,” said the maid to Monsieur Cardot, who was airing himself in the garden before breakfast, after being shaved and having his head dressed by the barber.
“Good morning, lady fair,” said the old silk-merchant, bowing to Madame Clapart, while he wrapped his white quilted dressing-gown across him. “Ah, ha! your youngster is growing apace,” he added, pulling Oscar by the ear.
“He has finished his schooling, and he was very sorry that his dear uncle was not present at the distribution of prizes at the Collège Henri IV, for he was named. The name of Husson, of which, let us hope, he may prove worthy, was honorably mentioned.”
“The deuce it was!” said the little man, stopping short. He was walking with Madame Clapart and Oscar on a terrace where there were orange-trees, myrtles, and pomegranate shrubs. “And what did he get?”
“The fourth accessit in philosophy,” said the mother triumphantly.
“Oh, ho. He has some way to go yet to make up for lost time,” cried Uncle Cardot. “To end with an accessit—is not the treasure of Peru.—You will breakfast with me?” said he.
“We are at your commands,” replied Madame Clapart. “Oh, my dear Monsieur Cardot, what a comfort it is to a father and mother when their children make a good start in life. From that point of view, as indeed from every other,” she put in, correcting herself, “you are one of the happiest fathers I know. In the hands of your admirable son-in-law and your amiable daughter, the Cocon d’Or is still the best shop of the kind in Paris. Your eldest son has been for years as a notary at the head of the best known business in Paris, and he married a rich woman. Your youngest is a partner in a first-rate druggist’s business. And you have the sweetest grandchildren! You are the head of four flourishing families.—Oscar, leave us; go and walk round the garden, and do not touch the flowers.”
“Why, he is eighteen!” exclaimed Uncle Cardot, smiling at this injunction, “as though Oscar was a child!”
“Alas! indeed he is, my dear Monsieur Cardot; and after bringing him up to that age neither crooked nor bandy, sound in mind and body, after sacrificing everything to give him an education, it would be hard indeed not to see him start in the way to fortune.”
“Well, Monsieur Moreau, who got you his half-scholarship at the Collège Henri IV, will start him in the right road,” said Uncle Cardot, hiding his hypocrisy under an affectation of bluntness.
“Monsieur Moreau may die,” said she. “Besides, he has quarreled beyond remedy with Monsieur le Comte de Sérizy, his patron.”
“The deuce he has! Listen, madame, I see what you are coming to—”
“No, monsieur,” said Oscar’s mother, cutting the old man short; while he, out of respect for a “lady fair,” controlled the impulse of annoyance at being interrupted. “Alas! you can know nothing of the anguish of a mother who for seven years has been obliged to take six hundred francs a year out of her husband’s salary of eighteen hundred. Yes, monsieur, that is our whole income. So what can I do for my Oscar! Monsieur Clapart so intensely hates the poor boy, that I really cannot keep him at home. What can a poor woman do under such circumstances but come to consult the only relative her boy has under heaven?”
“You did quite right,” replied Monsieur Cardot, “you never said anything of all this before—”
“Indeed, monsieur,” replied Madame Clapart with pride, “you are the last person to whom I would confess the depth of my poverty. It is all my own fault; I married a man whose incapacity is beyond belief. Oh! I am a most miserable woman.”
“Listen, madame,” said the little old man gravely. “Do not cry. I cannot tell you how much it pains me to see a fair lady in tears. After all, your boy’s name is Husson; and if the dear departed were alive, she would do something for the sake of her
