On hearing these fearful words addressed to his son by Badinot, the count changed color, and clung to a chair for support. His venerable and respected name dishonored by a man whom he had reason to doubt was his son? His first feeling overcome, the angry looks of the old man, and a threatening gesture which he made as he advanced toward the study revealed a resolution so alarming that Madame de Lucenay caught him by the hand, stopped him, and said, in a low tone, with the most profound conviction, "He is innocent; I swear to you! Listen in silence."
The count stood still; he wished to believe what the duchess had said was true.
She, on her part, was persuaded of his honesty. To obtain new sacrifices from this woman, so blindly generous—sacrifices which alone had saved him from the threats of Jacques Ferrand—the viscount had sworn to Madame de Lucenay, that, dupe of a scoundrel from whom he had received in payment the forged bill, he ran the risk of being regarded as an accomplice of the forger, having himself put it in circulation.
Madame de Lucenay knew that the viscount was imprudent, prodigal, and careless; but never for a moment had she supposed him capable of an infamous action, not even the slightest indiscretion.
By twice lending him considerable sums under very peculiar circumstances, she had wished to render him a friendly service, the viscount only accepting this money on the express condition of returning it; for there was due to him, he said, more than twice this amount.
His apparent luxurious manner of living allowed her to believe it. Besides, Madame de Lucenay, yielding to her natural kind impulses, had only thought of being useful to Florestan, without any care whether he could repay or not. He affirmed it, and she did not doubt. In answering for the viscount's honor, in supplicating the old count to listen to the conversation of his son, the duchess thought that he was going to speak of the abuse of confidence of which he had been a victim, and that he would be thus entirely exculpated in the eyes of his father.
"Once more," continued Florestan, in an agitated voice, "I say this Petit Jean is a scoundrel; he assured me that he had no other bills than those I withdrew yesterday, and three days ago. I thought this one was in circulation: it was payable three months after date, at Adams & Co., London?"
"Yes, yes," said the clear and sharp voice of Badinot. "I know, my dear viscount, that you have adroitly managed your affairs; your forgeries were not to be discovered until you were far away. But you have been caught by those more cunning than yourself."
"Oh! it is very well to tell me this now, wretch that you are!" cried Florestan, furiously; "did you not yourself introduce this person to me, who has negotiated the paper?"
"Come, my dear aristocrat," answered Badinot, coldly, "be calm! You are very skillful in counterfeiting commercial signatures; it is really wonderful; but that is no reason why you should treat your friends with disagreeable familiarity. If you go on in this way—I leave you to arrange as you please."
"Do you think one can preserve calmness in such a position? If what you tell me is true—if this complaint is lodged against me to-day, I am lost."
"It is exactly as I tell you, unless you should have recourse again to your charming providence with the blue eyes."
"That is impossible."
"Then be resigned. It is a pity it was the last note! for twenty-five thousand paltry francs, to go and take the air of the south at Toulon—it is ridiculous, absurd, stupid! How could a cunning man like you suffer yourself to be thus cornered?"
"What is to be done? what is to be done? nothing here belongs to me; I have not twenty louis of my own."
"Your friends?"
"Oh! I owe to all who could lend me; do you think me such a fool as to have waited until to-day to ask them?"
"That is true; pardon me—come, let us talk tranquilly, it is the best way to arrive at a reasonable solution. Just now I wanted to tell you how you were attacked by those who were more cunning than yourself. You did not listen to me."
"Well, speak, if it can be of any use."
"Let us recapitulate: you said to me about two months since, 'I have about one hundred and thirteen thousand francs in bills on different banking-houses, which have some time to run; can you find means to negotiate them for me, my dear Badinot—'"
"Well! what next?"
"Stop! I asked to see them. Something told me that the bills were forgeries, although perfectly well done. I did not suspect that you, it is true, possessed a caligraphic talent so far advanced; but having the charge of your fortunes, ever since you had no more fortune, I knew you were completely ruined. I had drawn up the deed by which your horses, your carriages, the furniture of this hotel, belonged to Boyer and Patterson. It was not wonderful for me to be astonished at seeing you possess commercial securities of so much value, was it?"
"Do me the favor to spare me your astonishment and let us arrive at the facts."
"Here they are. I had not enough experience or timidity to care to meddle directly in affairs of that description; I recommended a third person to you, who, not less sharp-sighted than I am, suspected the game you wished to play."
"That is impossible-he would not have discounted these bills if he had thought them false."
"How much money did he give you for the one hundred and thirteen thousand francs?"
"Twenty-five thousand francs cash, and the remainder in debts to be recovered."
"And how much did you ever recover from these?"
"Nothing, you know well enough; they were imaginary; but he certainly risked twenty-five thousand francs."
"How unfledged you are, my dear lord! Having my commission of a hundred louis to receive, I took good care not to tell this third person the real state of your affairs. He thought you still quite rich, and he knew, besides, that you were adored by a great lady, who was very rich, and who would never have you in embarrassment; he was then pretty sure to get back what he advanced; he ran some risk, to be sure; but he also had a chance of making a great deal of money, and his calculation was a good one; for, the other day you paid him one hundred thousand francs to withdraw the forgery of fifty-eight thousand francs, and yesterday thirty thousand francs for the second; for this last, he had been contented with receiving its real value. How you procured these thirty thousand francs yesterday may the devil run away with me if I know! for you are a man unique. So you see that at the end of the account, if Petit Jean forces you to pay the last draft for twenty-five thousand francs, he will have received from you one hundred and fifty-five thousand francs for twenty-five thousand francs which he paid you; now, I had reason to say that you were in the hands of those more cunning than yourself."
"But why did he tell me that this last bill, which he presented to-day, was negotiated?"
"Not to alarm you; he also had told you that, with the exception of the fifty-eight thousand francs, the others were in circulation; the first, once paid, yesterday came the second, and to-day the third."
"The scoundrel!"
"Listen to me, then: every one for himself, as a celebrated lawyer said, and I like the maxim. But let us talk coolly: this proves to you that Petit Jean (and, between us, I should not be surprised if, notwithstanding his holy reputation, Jacques Ferrand was half concerned in these speculations), this proves to you, I say, that Petit Jean, allured by your first payments, speculates on this last bill, quite sure that your friends will not allow you to be dragged before the judges. It is for you to see if these friends are so well used, so drained, that not another golden drop can be squeezed from them, for, if in three hours you have not the twenty-five thousand francs, my noble lord, you are caged."
"If you were to repeat this to me forever—"
"Perhaps you would consent to pluck a last feather from the wing of that generous duchess."
"I repeat to you, it must not be thought of. To find in three hours twenty-five thousand francs more, after all the sacrifices she has already made—it would be madness to think of it."
"To please you, fortunate mortal, one would try an impossibility."
"Oh! she has already tried it: this was to borrow one hundred thousand francs from her husband, and she succeeded; but these are experiments that cannot be tried twice. Let us see, my dear Badinot, until now you have never had any reason to complain of me. I have always been generous; try to obtain some delay from this miserable Petit Jean. You know I always can find means to recompense those who serve me; this last affair once hushed, I will take a new flight—you shall be content with me."
"Petit Jean is as inflexible as you are unreasonable."
"I!"
"Try only to interest once more your generous friend in your sad fate. The devil! Tell her right out the truth; not as you have already said, that you are the dupe, but that you are the forger himself."
"No, never will I make such an acknowledgment; it would be shame without any advantage."
"Do you prefer that she should learn it to-morrow by the 'Police Gazette'?"
"I have three hours left—I can fly."
"Where will you go without money? Judge now! on the contrary, this last forgery taken up, you will find yourself in a superb position; you would have no more debts. Come, come, promise me to speak once more to the duchess. You are such a rake, you know how to make yourself so interesting in spite of your faults; at the very worst, perhaps, you will be esteemed the less, or even no more, but you will be lifted out of this scrape. Come, promise me to see your friend, and I will run to Petit Jean, and do my best to obtain an hour or two more."
"Hell! must I drink of shame to the very dregs?"
"Come now! good luck—be tender, charming, fond; I run to Petit Jean: you will find me here until three o'clock; later it will no longer be in time: the public prosecutor's office is closed after four o'clock."
Badinot took his departure.
When the door was closed, Florestan was heard to cry, in profound despair, "Lost!"
During this conversation, which unmasked to the count the infamy of his son, and to Madame de Lucenay the infamy of the man whom she had so blindly loved, both remained immovable, scarcely breathing, under the weight of this frightful revelation.
It would be impossible to describe the mute eloquence of the sorrowful scene which passed between this young woman and the count, when there was no longer any doubt of the crime of Florestan. Extending his arm toward the room where his son remained, the old man smiled with bitter irony, cast a withering look on Madame de Lucenay, and seemed to say to her:
"Behold him for whom you have braved all shame, made every sacrifice! Behold him you have reproached me for abandoning!"
The duchess understood the look; for a moment she hung her head under the weight of her shame. The lesson was terrible.
Then by degrees, to the cruel anxiety which had contracted the features of Madame de Lucenay succeeded a kind of noble indignation. The inexcusable faults of this woman were at least palliated by the fidelity of her love, by the boldness of her devotion, by the grandeur of her generosity, by the frankness of her character, and by her inexorable aversion for everything that was cowardly and dishonest.
Still too young, too handsome, too much sought after, to experience the humility of having been made use of, this proud and decided woman, once the illusion of love having vanished, felt neither hatred nor anger; instantaneously, without any transition, a mortal disgust, an icy disdain, killed her affection, until then so lively; it was no longer a woman deceived by her lover, but it was the lady of fashion discovering that a man of her society was a cheat and a forger.
In supposing even that some circumstances might have extenuated the ignominy of Florestan, Madame de Lucenay would not have admitted them; according to her views, the man who overstepped certain limits of honor, either through vice or weakness, no longer existed in her eyes, honor being for her a question of existence or non-existence. The only sorrowful feeling experienced by the duchess, was excited by the terrible effect which this unexpected revelation produced on the count, her old friend. For some moments he appeared not to see nor hear; his eyes were fixed, his head hung down, his arms suspended, his paleness livid, and from time to time a convulsive sigh escaped from his bosom. With a man as resolute as he was energetic, such a state of dejection was more alarming than the most furious bursts of rage.
Madame de Lucenay looked at him with much anxiety. "Courage, my friend," said she to him, in a low tone, "for you, for me, for this man—I know what remains for me to do."
The old man looked at her fixedly; then, as if he had been aroused from his stupor by some violent shock, he raised his head, his features assumed a threatening appearance, and, forgetting that his son might hear him, he cried: "And I, also, for you, for me, for this man—I know what I have to do."
"Who is there?" cried Florestan, surprised.
Madame de Lucenay, fearing to meet the viscount, disappeared through the small door, and descended the private staircase.
Florestan, having again demanded who was there, and receiving no answer, entered the saloon.
The long beard of the old man changed him so much, he was so poorly dressed, that his son, who had not seen him for many years, did not at first recognize him; he advanced rapidly toward him with a menacing air, and said, "Who are you? What do you want here?"
"I am the husband of that woman!" answered the count, showing the portrait of Madame de Saint Remy.
"My father!" cried Florestan, retreating in alarm; and he endeavored to recall to mind the features so long forgotten. Erect, formidable, his looks irritated, his face purple with rage, his white hair thrown back, his arms crossed on his breast, the count, over-awed, confounded his son, who, with his head down, dared not to raise his eyes upon him. Yet Saint Remy, from some secret motive, made a violent effort to remain calm and to conceal his feelings of resentment.
"Father!" said Florestan, in a faltering voice, "you were there!" "I was there."
"You have heard—"
"All."
"Oh!" cried the viscount, mournfully, concealing his face in his hands.
There was a moment's pause. Florestan, at first as much astonished as vexed at the unexpected apparition of his father, soon began to think what he could make out of this incident. "All is not lost," said he to himself; "the presence of my father is a stroke of fate. He knows all; he will not have his name dishonored; he is not rich, but be must have more than twenty-five thousand francs. Let us play close—address, emotion, and a little tenderness. I will let the duchess alone, and I am saved!"
Then, giving to his charming features an expression of mournful dejection, moistening his eyes with the tears of repentance, assuming his most thrilling tones, his most pathetic manner, he cried, joining his hands with a gesture of despair: "Oh, my father: I am very unhappy! after so many years—to see you again, and at such a moment! I must appear so culpable to you! But deign to listen to me, I entreat you—I supplicate you; permit me, not to justify myself, but to explain to you my conduct; will you, my father?"
Old Saint Remy answered not a word: his features remained immovable: he seated himself, and with his chin resting on the palm of his hand, looked at his son in silence.
If Florestan had known the thoughts which filled the mind of his father with hatred, fury, and vengeance, alarmed at the apparent calmness of the count, he would not have tried to dupe him.
But, ignorant of the suspicions attached to his birth, ignorant of the fault of his mother, Florestan doubted not the success of his trick, believing he had only to soften a father who, at once a misanthrope and very proud of his name, would be capable, rather than see his name dishonored, to decide on any sacrifice.
"My father," he resumed timidly, "permit me to try, not to exculpate myself, but to tell you how, from involuntary misleadings, I have reached, almost in spite of myself, actions—infamous—I acknowledge." The viscount took the silence of his father for a tacit consent, and continued:
"When I had the misfortune to lose my mother—my poor mother, who loved me so well—I was not twenty. I found myself alone, without counsel, without protection. Master of a considerable fortune, accustomed to luxury from my childhood, I had made it a habit, a want. Ignorant of the difficulty of earning money, I lavished it without measure. Unfortunately—and I say unfortunately, because this ruined me—my expenses, foolish as they were, by their elegance were remarkable. By good taste I eclipsed people who were ten times richer than I was. This first success intoxicated me. I became a man of luxury as one becomes a warrior or a statesman; yes, I loved luxury, not from vulgar ostentation, but I loved it as the painter loves a picture, as the poet loves poetry; like every other artist, I was jealous of my work; and my work was my luxury. I sacrificed everything to its perfection. I wished it fine, grand, complete, splendidly harmonious in everything, from my stables to my table, from my dress to my house. I wished in everything to be a model of taste and elegance. As an artist, in fine, I was greedy of the applause of the crowd, and of the admiration of people of fashion; this success, so rare, I obtained."
In speaking thus, the features of Florestan lost by degrees their hypocritical expression; his eyes shone with a kind of enthusiasm; he told the truth; he had been at first reduced by this rather uncommon manner of understanding luxury. He looked inquiringly at his father; he thought he appeared rather softened.
He resumed, with growing warmth: "Oracle and regulator of the fashions, my praise or censure made the law; I was quoted, copied, extolled, admired, and that by the best company in Paris, that is to say, Europe, the world. The women partook of the general infatuation; the most charming disputed for the pleasure of coming to some very select fetes which I gave; and everywhere, and always, nothing was heard but of the incomparable elegance and exquisite taste of these fetes, which the millionaires could neither equal nor eclipse; in fine, I was the Glass of Fashion. This word will tell you all, my father, if you understand it."
"I understand it, and I am sure that at the galleys you will invent some refined elegance in the manner of carrying your chain, that will become the fashion in the yard, and will be called a la Saint Remy," said the old man, with bitter irony; then he added, "and Saint Remy is my name!"
It caused Florestan to exercise much control over himself to conceal the wound caused by this sarcasm.
He continued, in a more humble tone: "Alas! my father, it is not from pride that I recall the fact of this success; for, I repeat to you, this success ruined me. Sought after, envied, flattered, praised, not by interested parasites, but by people whose position much surpassed mine, and over whom I only had the advantage derived from elegance— which is to luxury what taste is to the arts—my head was turned; I did not calculate that my fortune must be spent in a few years; little did I heed it. Could I renounce this feverish, dazzling life, in which pleasure succeeded to pleasure, enjoyments to enjoyments, fetes to fetes, intoxications of all sorts to enchantments of all sorts? Oh, if you knew, my father, what it is to be everywhere noticed as the hero of the day; to hear the whisperings which announce your entrance into a saloon; to hear the women say, 'It is he!—there he is!' Oh! if you knew——"
"I know," said the old man, interrupting his son, and without changing his position; "I know. Yes, the other day, in a public square, there was a crowd, suddenly I heard a noise, like that with which you are received when you go anywhere; then the looks of all, the women especially, were fixed on a very handsome young man, just as they are fixed on you, and they pointed him out, just as they do you, saying, 'It is he! there he is!' just exactly as they say of you."
"But this man, my father?"
"Was a forger they were placing in the pillory."
"Ah!" exclaimed Florestan, with suppressed rage; then, feigning profound affliction, he added: "My father, have you no pity—what can I say to you now? I do not seek to deny my faults—I only wish to explain to you the fatal cause of them. Ah, well! yes, should you again overwhelm me with cruel sarcasms, I will try to go to the end of this confession—I will try to make you understand this feverish vanity which has ruined me, because then, perhaps, you will pity me. Yes, for one pities a fool—and I was a fool. Shutting my eyes, I abandoned myself to the dazzling vortex, into which I dragged along with me the most charming women, the most amiable men. Stop myself— could I do it? As well say to the poet who exhausts himself, and whose genius is consuming his health, 'Pause in the midst of the inspiration which carries you away!' No! I could not; I—I! abdicate this royalty which I exercised, and return, ruined, ashamed, mocked, to the state of a plebeian—unknown; give this triumph to my rivals, whom I had until then defied, ruled, crushed! No, no, I could not! not voluntarily, at least. The fatal day came, when, for the first time, my money was wanting. I was as surprised as if this moment never could happen. Yet I had still my horses, my carriages, and the furniture of this house. My debts paid, I should still have sixty thousand francs— perhaps—what should I do with this trifle? Then, my father, I took the first step in infamy. I was still honest. I had only spent what belonged to me; but then I began to contract debts which I could not pay. I sold all I possessed to two of my people, in order to settle with them, and to be able, for six months longer, to enjoy this luxury which intoxicated me, in spite of my creditors. To provide for my wants at play and foolish expenses, I borrowed, in the first place, from the Jews; then, to pay the Jews, from my friends. These resources exhausted, commenced a new era of my life. From an honest man I had become a chevalier d'industrie, but I was not yet criminal. However, I hesitated. I wished to take a violent resolution. I had proved in several duels that I was not afraid of death. I thought I would kill myself."
"Indeed?" said the count, ironically.
"You do not believe me, my father?"
"It was too soon, or too late!" added the old man, quite immovable, and in the same attitude.
Florestan, thinking he had alarmed his father in speaking to him of his project of suicide, thought it necessary to get up the scene again for a little stage effect. He opened a closet and took from it a little green crystal vial, and said to the count, placing it on the mantelpiece: "An Italian quack sold me this poison."
"And—it was for yourself?" said the old man, still leaning on his elbow.
Florestan understood the bearing of his father's words. His face now expressed real indignation, for he spoke the truth. One day, he had had the idea of killing himself—an ephemeral fantasy; people of his stamp are too cowardly to resolve coldly and without witnesses upon death, which they will boldly meet in a duel through a point of honor. He cried, then, in a tone of truth, "I have fallen very low, but at least not so low as that, my father! It was for myself I reserved the poison!"
"And you were afraid?" said the count, without change of position.
"I confess it, I recoiled before this dreadful extremity; nothing was yet desperate, the persons whom I owed were rich, and could wait. At my age, with my relations, I hoped for a moment, if not to repair my fortune, at least to assure myself an honorable independent position in its place. Several of my friends, perhaps, less capable than myself had made rapid strides in diplomacy. I had a velleity of ambition. I had only to request, and I was attached to the legation of Gerolstein. Unfortunately, some days after this nomination, a gambling debt contracted with a man I hated placed me in the most cruel embarrassment. I had exhausted every resource. A fatal idea occurred to me. Believing myself certain of impunity, I committed an infamous action. You see, my father, I conceal nothing from you. I confess the ignominy of my conduct. I seek to extenuate nothing. One of two resolutions remains for me to take, and I have now to decide which. The first is to kill myself, and to leave your name dishonored, for if I do not pay to-day even the twenty-five thousand francs, the complaint is made, the affair known, and, dead or living, I am ruined. The second means is to throw myself in the hands of my father, to say to you, save your son, save your name from infamy, and I swear to leave to-morrow for Africa, to enlist as a soldier, and either to be killed or to return some day honorably reinstated. What I now tell you, my father, is true. In face of the extremity which overwhelms me, I have no other way. Decide; either I die covered with shame, or thanks to you, I will live to repair my faults. These are not the threats and words of a young man, my father. I am now twenty-five; I bear your name; I have courage enough either to kill myself, or to become a soldier, for I will not go to the galleys."
The count arose.
"I will not have my name dishonored," said he coldly to Florestan.
"Oh, my father! my savior!" cried the viscount, warmly; and he was about to throw himself into the arms of his father, when he, with an icy gesture, checked the impulse.
"They wait for you until three o'clock, at the house of this man who has the forgery?"
"Yes, my father; and it is now two o'clock."
"Let us pass into your cabinet—give me something to write with."
"Here, my father." The count seated himself before the desk of his son, and wrote with a firm hand:
"I engage to pay this night, at ten o'clock, the 25,000 francs which are owed by my son.
"COUNT DE SAINT REMY."
"Your creditor insists upon having the money; notwithstanding his threats, this engagement of mine will make him consent to a new delay; he can go to Mr. Dupont, banker, in the Rue de Richelieu, No. 7, who will inform him of the value of this note."
"Oh, father! however can—"
"You may expect me to-night; at ten o'clock. I will bring you the money. Let your creditor be here."
"Yes, father, and after to-morrow, I start for Africa. You shall see if I am ungrateful. Then, perhaps, when I have reinstated myself, you will accept my thanks."
"You owe me nothing; I have said my name shall be no further dishonored; it shall not be," said M. de Saint Remy, calmly; and taking his cane, which he had placed on the bureau, he turned toward the door.
"Father, your hand at least!" said Florestan, in a supplicating tone.
"Here, to-night, at ten-o'clock," replied the count, refusing his hand. And he departed.
"Saved!" cried Florestan, joyfully, "saved!" then, after a moment's reflection, he added, "saved! almost. No matter; so far good. Perhaps to-night I will acknowledge the other thing; he is in train; he will not stop halfway and let his sacrifice be useless, because he refuses a second. Yet why tell him? Who will know it? Never mind; if nothing is discovered, I will keep the money that he will give me to pay this last debt. I had a great deal of trouble to move him, this devil of a man! The bitterness of his sarcasms made me doubt my success; but my threat of suicide, the fear of having his name dishonored, decided him; that was the lucky stroke. He is, doubtless, not so poor as he pretends to be, if he possesses a hundred thousand francs. He must have saved money, living as he does. Once more, I say his coming was a lucky chance. He has a cross look, but, at the bottom, I think he is a good fellow; but I must hasten to this bailiff." He rang the bell. Boyer appeared.
"Why did you not inform me that my father was here? you are very negligent."
"Twice I endeavored to speak to you when you came through the garden with M. Badinot; but, probably, preoccupied by your conversation with M. Badinot, you made a motion with the hand not to be interrupted. I did not permit myself to insist. I should be deeply wounded if my lord could believe me guilty of negligence."
"Very well; tell Edward to harness immediately Orion—no—Plower, to the cabriolet."
Boyer bowed respectfully; as he was about to retire, some one knocked at the door.
"Come in!" said Florestan.
A second valet appeared, holding in his hand a small salver. Boyer took hold of the salver with a kind of jealous officiousness, and came and presented it to the viscount, who took from it a rather voluminous envelope, sealed with black wax. The valets retired ceremoniously. The viscount opened the package. It contained twenty-five thousand francs, in treasury notes; with no other information.
"Decidedly," cried he, with joy, "the day is lucky—sacred! this time, completely saved. I shall go to the jeweler's—and yet—perhaps—no, let us wait—they can have no suspicion of me—twenty-five thousand francs are good to keep; pardieu! I was a fool ever to doubt my star; at the moment it seems most obscured does it not appear more brilliant than ever? But where does this money come from? the writing of the address is unknown to me; let me look at the seal—the cipher; yes, yes, I am not mistaken—an N and an L—it is Clotilde! How has she known?—and not a word—it is strange! How apropos! Oh I reflect—I made a rendezvous for this morning—these threats of Badinot upset me. I had forgotten Clotilde—after having waited some time, she has gone. Doubtless, this is sent as a delicate hint that she fears I shall forget her on account of my monetary embarrassments. Yes, it is an indirect reproach for not addressing myself to her as usual. Good Clotilde—always the same!—generous as a queen! What a pity to come again from her—still so handsome! Sometimes I regret it; but I have never asked her until, at the last extremity, I have been forced to it."
"The cabriolet is ready," said Boyer.
"Who brought this letter?"
"I am uninformed, my lord."
"Exactly—I will ask at the door; but tell me, is there no one below?" added the viscount, looking at Boyer in a significant manner.
"There is no longer any one, my lord."
"I was not deceived," thought Florestan. "Clotilde has waited for me, and has gone away."
"Will my lord have the goodness to grant me two minutes?" said Boyer.
"Speak, but make haste."
"Mr. Patterson and I have understood that his Grace the Duke of Montbrison was about to establish himself; if your lordship would have the goodness to propose to let him have his house all furnished, as well as the stables, it would be a good occasion for us to dispose of all; and, perhaps, might also suit my lord."
"You are right, Boyer! I should much prefer it. I will see Montbrison, and will speak to him about it. What are your conditions?"
"Your lordship understands that we ought to try to profit as much as we can by his generosity."
"And gain by your bargain? nothing can be plainer! Come, what is the price?"
"For the whole, two hundred and sixty thousand francs, my lord."
"How much do you and Patterson make?"
"About forty thousand francs, my lord."
"Very pretty! However, so much the better; for, after all, I am satisfied with you, and if I had had a will to make, I should have left this sum to you and Patterson." The viscount went out to go, in the first place, to his creditor and Madame de Lucenay, whom he did not suspect of having overheard his conversation with Badinot.
