"All the cast-off rubbish from Paris is what you sell to me. But do not suppose that I am taken in. I have known it a long time, Monsieur, a very long time. Only I can never look in your cherubic and smiling face without giving way."
M. Fayolle was smiling at the moment, showing his large yellow teeth from ear to ear.
"The face is the mirror of the soul, Monsieur le Duc; you may rely on me never to offer you anything but what is absolutely first-rate. Has Apollyon turned out badly?"
"Hm. So-so."
"You must surely be jesting! I saw him in the street the other day, in your phaeton. Every one turned round to look at him."
For some minutes they discussed various horses which Requena had bought of the Frenchman; he found fault with every one of them. Fayolle defended them with the enthusiasm of a dealer and a connoiseur. Presently, at a pause, he looked at his watch, saying:
"I will not detain you any longer. I came for the settlement of that last little account."
The Duke's face clouded. Then he said half laughing and half angry:
"Why, my good man, you are never happy unless you are getting money out of me."
At the same time he put his hand in his pocket and took out his note-book. M. Fayolle still smiled, saying that he could not bear to ask for it, knowing that the Duke was such a pauper, and that it would be dreadful indeed to see him reduced to beggary, a delicate joke which Requena did not seem to hear, being absorbed in counting out the paper. He laid out seven notes of one hundred dollars each and handed them to Fayolle, ringing a bell for a clerk to bring a form of receipt. Fayolle, on his part, counted them, and then said: