“I give this marriage portion of a hundred thousand livres in advance to Gilbert for the day when he signs the marriage contract with Mdlle. Andrea de Taverney, in the trust the happy match will be made.
JOSEPH BALSAMO.”
“If I have to thank you for such a boon, I will worship you like a god,” said the young man, trembling.
“There is but one God and He reigns above,” said the mesmerist.
“A last favor; give me fifty livres to get a suit fit for me to present myself to the baron.”
Supplying him with this little sum, Balsamo nodded for him to go, and with his slow, sad step, went into the house.
The young man walked to Versailles, for he wanted to build his plans on the road where he was much annoyed by the hack-drivers who could not understand why such a dandy as he had turned himself out by the outlay of the fifty livres, could think of walking.
All his batteries were prepared when he reached the Trianon but they were useless. As we know, the Taverneys had departed. All the janitor of the place knew was that the doctor had ordered the young lady home for native air.
Disappointed, he walked back to Paris where he knocked at the door of the house in Coq-Heron Street, but here again was a blank. No one came to the door.
Mad with rage, gnawing his nails to punish the body, he turned the corner and entered Rousseau’s house where he went up to his familiar garret. He locked the door and hung the handkerchief containing the banknotes to the key.