“Let us not deceive ourselves, monseigneur; we are very much opposed to paying the Bastile a visit,” added the prelate, displaying, beneath his pale lips, teeth which were still the same beautiful teeth so much admired thirty years previously by Marie Michon.
“And you think it is not too much to pay one hundred and fifty thousand francs for that? I thought you generally put out money at better interest than that.”
“The day will come when you will admit your mistake.”
“My dear D’Herblay, the very day on which a man enters the Bastile, he is no longer protected by his past.”
“Yes, he is, if the bonds are perfectly regular; besides, that good fellow Baisemeaux has not a courtier’s heart. I am certain, my lord, that he will not remain ungrateful for that money, without taking into account, I repeat, that I retain the acknowledgments.”
“It is a strange affair! usury in a matter of benevolence.”
“Do not mix yourself up with it, monseigneur; if there be usury, it is I who practice it, and both of us reap the advantage from it—that is all.”
“Some intrigue, D’Herblay?”
“I do not deny it.”
“And Baisemeaux an accomplice in it?”