Lemercier rapidly scanned his eye over the contents of Louvier’s letter.
“It is true, then, that you owe this man a year’s interest—more than 7,000 louis?”
“Somewhat more—yes. But that is not the first care that troubles me—Rochebriant may be lost, but with it not my honour. I owe the Russian Prince 300 louis, lost to him last night at ecarte. I must find a purchaser for my coupe and horses; they cost me 600 louis last year,—do you know any one who will give me three?”
“Pooh! I will give you six; your alezan alone is worth half the money!”
“My dear Frederic, I will not sell them to you on any account. But you have so many friends—”
“Who would give their soul to say, ‘I bought these horses of Rochebriant.’ Of course I do. Ha! young Rameau, you are acquainted with him?”
“Rameau! I never heard of him!”
“Vanity of vanities, then what is fame? Rameau is the editor of Le Sens Commun. You read that journal?”
“Yes, it has clever articles, and I remember how I was absorbed in the eloquent romance which appeared in it.”
“Ah! by the Signora Cicogna, with whom I think you were somewhat smitten last year.”