"To the Countess, is n't it? I see no harm in that. I ask you to help in my business; I observe my promise not to interfere with yours. He is intelligent; we will make him faithful: he shall take two notes by all means, my friend."
With the advice and assistance of Guillaume the two notes were soon written: the first was couched much in the terms suggested by that ingenious old schemer, the second was more characteristic of Paul himself and of the trade which Paul had joined. "It would grieve me profoundly," the precious missive ran, "to do anything to distress you. But I have suffered very seriously, and not in my purse only. Unless you will act fairly by me, I must act for myself. If I do not receive fifty thousand francs in twenty-four hours, I turn to the only other quarter open to me. I am to be found at the inn. There is no need of a signature; you will remember your—Friend."
Guillaume put on his spectacles and read it through twice.
"Excellent, Monsieur Paul!" said he.
"It is easy to detect a practised hand." And when Paul swore at him, he laughed the more, finding much entertainment in mocking the rascal whom he used.
Yet in this conduct there was a rashness little befitting Guillaume's age and Guillaume's profession. Paul was not a safe man to laugh at. If from time to time, in the way of business, he was obliged to throw a light brighter than he would have preferred on his own character, he did not therefore choose to be made the subject of raillery. And if it was not safe to mock him, neither was it very safe to talk of money to him. The thought of money—of thousands of francs, easily convertible into pounds, marks, dollars, florins, or whatever chanced to be the denomination of the country to which free and golden-winged steps might lead him—had a very inflaming effect on M. Paul de Roustache's imagination. The Baron von Englebaden had started the whole of that troublesome affair by boasting of the number of thousands of marks which had gone to the making of the Baroness's necklace. And now M. Guillaume—rash M. Guillaume—talked of bribing Captain Dieppe. Bribery means money; if the object is important it means a large amount of money: and presumably the object is important and the scale of expenditure correspondingly liberal, when such a comfortable little douceur as ten thousand francs is readily promised as the reward of incidental assistance. Following this train of thought, Paul's mind fixed itself with some persistency on two points. The first was modest, reasonable, definite; he would see the colour of Guillaume's money before the affair went further; he would have his ten thousand francs, or at least a half of them, before he lent any further aid by word or deed. But the second idea was larger; it was also vaguer, and, although it hardly seemed less reasonable or natural to the brain which conceived it, it could scarcely be said to be as justifiable; at any rate it did not admit of being avowed as frankly to Guillaume himself. In fact Paul was wondering how much money Guillaume proposed to pay for Captain Dieppe's honour (in case that article proved to be in the market), and, further, where and in what material form that money was. Would it be gold? Why, hardly; when it comes to thousands of anything, the coins are not handy to carry about. Would it be a draft? That is a safe mode of conveying large sums, but it has its disadvantages in affairs where secrecy is desired and ready money indispensable. Would it be notes? There were risks here—but also conveniences. And Guillaume seemed bold as well as wary. Moreover Guillaume's coat was remarkably shabby, his air very unassuming, and his manner of life at the hotel frugality itself; such a playing of the vacuus viator might be meant to deceive not only the landlord of the Aquila Nera, but also any other predatory persons whom Guillaume should encounter in the course of his travels. Yes, some of it would be in notes. Paul de Roustache bade the serving-maid bring him a bottle of wine, and passed an hour in consuming it very thoughtfully.
Guillaume returned from his conversation with the innkeeper just as the last glass was poured out. To Paul's annoyance he snatched it up and drained it—an act of familiarity that reached insolence.
"To the success of our enterprise!" said he, grinning at his discomfited companion. "All goes well. The innkeeper knows the Countess's maid, and the note will reach the Countess by midday; I have described Dieppe to him most accurately, and he will hang about till he gets a chance of delivering the second note to him, or seeing it delivered."
"And what are we to do?" asked Paul, still sour and still thoughtful.
"As regards the Countess, nothing. If the money comes, good for you. If not, I presume you will, at your own time, open communications with the Count?"