“Sir—!” I began, rising from my seat in indignant protest at the coarse insult. But with an authoritative gesture he checked the flow of my indignation.
“No comedy, I pray you, Sir,” he said. “We are not at the Theatre Molière, but, I presume, in an office where business is transacted both briefly and with discretion.”
“At your service, Monsieur,” I replied.
“Then listen, will you?” he went on curtly, “and pray do not interrupt. Only speak in answer to a question from me.”
I bowed my head in silence. Thus must the proud suffer when they happen to be sparsely endowed with riches.
“You have no doubt heard of Mlle. Goldberg,” M. Rochez continued after a moment’s pause, “the lovely daughter of the rich usurer in the Rue des Médecins.”
I had heard of Mlle. Goldberg. Her beauty and her father’s wealth were reported to be fabulous. I indicated my knowledge of the beautiful lady by a mute inclination of the head.
“I love Mlle. Goldberg,” my client resumed, “and I have reason for the belief that I am not altogether indifferent to her. Glances, you understand, from eyes as expressive as those of the exquisite Jewess speak more eloquently than words.”
He had forbidden me to speak, so I could only express concurrence in the sentiments which he expressed by a slight elevation of my left eyebrow.
“I am determined to win the affections of Mlle. Goldberg,” M. Rochez went on glibly, “and equally am I determined to make her my wife.”