“I beg your pardon, count; but, if I succeed in obtaining the appointment, you, and not he, will have bestowed it on me.”
“Besides, he will not have given it to you for nothing, I suppose. Stay, I have it;—there is a Malicorne at Orleans, who lends money to the prince.”
“I think that must be my father, monsieur.”
“Ah! the prince has the father, and that terrible dragon of a Manicamp has the son. Take care, monsieur, I know him. He will fleece you completely.”
“The only difference is, that I lend without interest,” said Malicorne, smiling.
“I was correct in saying you were either a saint or very much resembled one. M. Malicorne, you shall have the post you want, or I will forfeit my name.”
“Ah! monsieur le comte, what a debt of gratitude shall I not owe you?” said Malicorne, transported.
“Let us go to the prince, my dear M. Malicorne.” And De Guiche proceeded toward the door, desiring Malicorne to follow him. At the very moment they were about to cross the threshold, a young man appeared on the other side. He was from twenty-four to twenty-five years of age, of pale complexion, bright eyes and brown hair and eyebrows.
“Good-day,” he said, suddenly, almost pushing De Guiche back into the courtyard again.
“Is that you, De Wardes?—What! and booted, spurred, and whip in hand, too?”