I
The Comte de Bonzag, on the ruined esplanade of his Château de Keragouil, frowned into the distant crepuscle of haystack and multiplied hedge, crumpling in his nervous hands two annoying slips of paper. The rugged body had not one more pound of flesh than was absolutely necessary to hold together the long, pointed bones. The bronzed, haphazard face was dominated by a stiff comb of orange-tawny hair, which faithfully reproduced the gaunt unloveliness of generations of Bonzags. But there lurked in the rapid advance of the nose and the abrupt, obstinate eyes a certain staring defiance which effectively limited the field of comment.
At his back, the riddled silhouette of ragged towers and crumbling roof reflected against the gentle skies something of the windy raiment of its owner. It was a Gascon château, arrogant and threadbare, which had never cried out at a wound, nor suffered the indignity of a patch. About it and through it, hundreds of swallows, its natural inheritors, crossed and recrossed in their vacillating flight.
Out of the obscurity of the green pastures that melted away into the near woods, the voice of a woman suddenly rose in a tender laugh.
The Comte de Bonzag sat bolt upright, dislodging from his lap a black spaniel, who tumbled on a matronly hound, whose startled yelp of indignation caused the esplanade to vibrate with dogs, that, scurrying from every cranny, assembled in an expectant circle, and waited with hungry tongues the intentions of their master.
The Comte, listening attentively, perceived near the stable his entire domestic staff reclining happily on the arm of Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier, the hero of a dozen fires.
"No, there are no longer any servants!" he exclaimed, with a bitterness that caused a stir in the pack; then angrily he shouted with all his forces: "Francine! Hey, there, Francine! Come here at once!"
The indisputable fact was that Francine had asked for her wages. Such a demand, indelicate in its simplest form, had been further aggravated by a respectful but clear ultimatum. It was pay, or do the cooking, and if the first was impossible, the second was both impossible and distasteful.
The enemy duly arrived, dimpled and plump, an honest thirty-five, a solid widow, who stopped at the top of the stairs with the distant respect which the Comte de Bonzag inspired even in his creditors.
"Francine, I have thought much," said the Comte, with a conciliatory look. "You were a little exaggerated, but you were in your rights."
"Ah, Monsieur le Comte, six months is long when one has a child who must be—"
"We will not refer again to our disagreement," the Comte said, interrupting her sternly. "I have simply called you to hear what action I have decided on."
"Oh, yes, M'sieur; thank you, M'sieur le Comte."
"Unluckily," said Bonzag, frowning, "I am forced to make a great sacrifice. In a month I could probably have paid all—I have a great uncle at Valle-Temple who is exceedingly ill. But—however, we will hold that for the future. I owe you, my good Francine, wages for six months—sixty francs, representing your service with me. I am going to give you on account, at once, twenty francs, or rather something immeasurably more valuable than that sum." He drew out the two slips of paper, and regarded them with affection and regret. "Here are two tickets for the Grand Lottery of France, which will be drawn this month, ten francs a ticket. I had to go to Chantreuil to get them; number 77,707 and number 200,013. Take them—they are yours."
"But, M'sieur le Comte," said Francine, looking stupidly at the tickets she had passively received. "It's—it's good round pieces of silver I need."
"Francine," cried de Bonzag, in amazed indignation, "do you realize that I probably have given you a fortune—and that I am absolving you of all division of it with me!"
"But, M'sieur—"
"That there are one hundred and forty-five numbers that will draw prizes."
"Yes, M'sieur le Comte; but—"
"That there is a prize of one quarter of a million, one third of a million—"
"All the same—"
"That the second prize is for one-half a million, and the first prize for one round million francs."
"M'sieur says?" said Francine, whose eyes began to open.
"One hundred and forty-five chances, and the lowest is for a hundred francs. You think that isn't a sacrifice, eh?"
"Well, Monsieur le Comte," Francine said at last with a sigh, "I'll take them for twenty francs. It's not good round silver, and there's my little girl—"
"Enough!" exclaimed de Bonzag, dismissing her with an angry gesture. "I am making you an heiress, and you have no gratitude! Leave me—and send hither Andoche."
He watched the bulky figure waddle off, sunk back in his chair, and repeated with profound dejection; "No gratitude! There, it's done: this time certainly I have thrown away a quarter of a million at the lowest!"
Presently Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier, the brass helmet under his arm, appeared at the top of the steps, smiling and thirsty, with covetous eyes fastened on the broken table, at the carafe containing curaçoa that was white and "Triple-Sec."
"Ah, it's you, Andoche," said the Comte, finally, drawn from his abstraction by a succession of rapid bows. He took two full-hearted sighs, pushed the carafe slightly in the direction of the Sapeur-Pompier, and added: "Sit down, my good Andoche. I have need to be a little gay. Suppose we talk of Paris."
It was the cue for Andoche to slip gratefully into a chair, possess the carafe and prepare to listen.
[a/]