He uttered these words with a phlegm, dry nobility, and perkiness imposing silence on Taverney’s observations, and helping him to believe that he ought to dwell convinced. So he grasped his illustrious friend’s hand and as he squeezed it, he said:
“Thanks to your delicacy, my daughter may accept this present.”
“The source and origin of the fortune of which I was speaking to you at the commencement of our annoying discussion on virtue.”
“I thank you with all my heart, duke.”
“One word: most carefully keep the news of this boon from the Dubarry’s friends. She is capable of quitting the King and running away.”
“Would the King be sorry for that?”
“I do not know, but the countess would bear you ill-will. I would be lost, in that case; so be wary.”
“Fear nothing: but bear my most humble thanks to his Majesty.”
“And your daughter’s—I shall not fail. But you are not at the end of the favor. You can thank him personally, dear friend, for you are invited to sup with him. We are a family party. We—his Majesty, you, and I, will talk about your daughter’s virtue. Good bye, Taverney! I see Dubarry with Aiguillon and they must not spy us in conversation.”
Light as a page, he skipped out of the gallery, leaving the old baron with the jewels, like a child waking up and finding what Santa Claus left in his sock while he slept.