into her pocket.

"Philippine! you'll come to a bad end," said the old man, shaking his
head but not attempting to recover his money. 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. "We might go and get more where that came from,--the rest of
us."

He was making a snare, and as he finished it the ferocious innkeeper
happened to glance at his father-in-law's trousers, and there he spied