“As serious as a mourner who has just buried his all.”
“His all? Tut, with such an estate as Rochebriant!”
For the first time in that talk Alain’s countenance became overcast.
“And how long will Rochebriant be mine? You know that I hold it at the mercy of the mortgagee, whose interest has not been paid, and who could if, he so pleased, issue notice, take proceedings—that—”
“Peste!” interrupted de Finisterre; “Louvier take proceedings! Louvier, the best fellow in the world! But don’t I see his handwriting on that envelope? No doubt an invitation to dinner.”
Alain took up the letter thus singled forth from a miscellany of epistles, some in female handwritings, unsealed but ingeniously twisted into Gordian knots—some also in female handwritings, carefully sealed—others in ill-looking envelopes, addressed in bold, legible, clerk-like caligraphy. Taken altogether, these epistles had a character in common; they betokened the correspondence of a viveur, regarded from the female side as young, handsome, well-born—on the male side, as a viveur who had forgotten to pay his hosier and tailor.
Louvier wrote a small, not very intelligible, but very masculine hand, as most men who think cautiously and act promptly do write. The letter ran thus:
“Cher petit Marquis” (at that commencement Alain haughtily raised his head and bit his lips).
“CHER PETIT MARQUIS,—It is an age since I have seen you. No
doubt my humble soirees are too dull for a beau seigueur so
courted. I forgive you. Would I were a beau seigneur at your age!
Alas! I am only a commonplace man of business, growing old, too.
Aloft from the world in which I dwell, you can scarcely be aware
that I have embarked a great part of my capital in building
speculations. There is a Rue de Louvier that runs its drains right
through my purse. I am obliged to call in the moneys due to me. My
agent informs me that I am just 7000 louis short of the total I
need—all other debts being paid in—and that there is a trifle more
than 7000 louis owned to me as interest on my hypotheque on
Rochebriant: kindly pay into his hands before the end of this week
that sum. You have been too lenient to Collot, who must owe you
more than that. Send agent to him. Desole to trouble you, and am
au desespoir to think that my own pressing necessities compel me
to urge you to take so much trouble. Mais que faire? The Rue de
Louvier stops the way, and I must leave it to my agent to clear it.
“Accept all my excuses, with the assurance of my sentiments the most
cordial. PAUL LOUVIER.”
Alain tossed the letter to De Finisterre. “Read that from the best fellow in the world.”