“Quite elderly, Monsieur.”
I could have screamed with joy. I was not yet forty myself.
“Why!” she added gaily, “he is thinking of retiring from business—he is, as I said, a commercial traveller—in favour of his nephew, M. Adrien Cazalès.”
Once more I had to steady myself against the table. The room swam round me. One hundred thousand francs!—a lovely creature!—an unscrupulous widower!—an equally dangerous young nephew. I rose and tottered to the window. I flung it wide open—a thing I never do save at moments of acute crises.
The breath of fresh air did me good. I returned to my desk, and was able once more to assume my habitual dignity and presence of mind.
“In all this, Mademoiselle,” I said in my best professional manner, “I do not gather how I can be of service to you.”
“I am coming to that, Monsieur,” she resumed after a slight moment of hesitation, even as an exquisite blush suffused her damask cheeks. “You must know that at first I was very happy in the house of my new guardian. He was exceedingly kind to me, though there were times already when I fancied . . .”
She hesitated—more markedly this time—and the blush became deeper on her cheeks. I groaned aloud.
“Surely he is too old,” I suggested.
“Much too old,” she assented emphatically.