“Do not trouble yourself, monsieur,” said Fouquet, politely; “I am told you wish to purchase a post I hold. How much can you give me for it?”
“It is for you, monseigneur, to fix the amount you require. I know that offers of purchase have already been made to you for it.”
“Madame Vanel, I have been told, values it at fourteen hundred thousand livres.”
“That is all we have.”
“Can you give me the money immediately?”
“I have not the money with me,” said Vanel, frightened almost by the unpretending simplicity, amounting to greatness, of the man, for he had expected disputes, difficulties, opposition of every kind.
“When will you be able to bring it?”
“Whenever you please, monseigneur;” for he began to be afraid that Fouquet was trifling with him.
“If it were not for the trouble you would have in returning to Paris, I would say at once; but we will arrange that the payment and the signature shall take place at six o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“Very good,” said Vanel, as cold as ice, and feeling quite bewildered.