Fabrice told me this story

When you were a little boy of ten, one day you felt the need for pocket money. You knew your mother or father wouldn't give you any. So you chose a dining-room chair, dragged it down the stairs, heaved it onto your little boy shoulders, and took it to the antique shop down the road. It was a beautiful piece of furniture and the man inside gave you exactly what you had hoped for. Twenty francs.

Your father gave you what you were half expecting too.