Once more I would have screamed with joy had not a sharp pang, like a dagger-thrust, shot through my heart.
“But the nephew, eh?” I said as jocosely, as indifferently as I could. “Young M. Cazalès? What?”
“Oh!” she replied with perfect indifference. “I hardly ever see him.”
Unfortunately it were not seemly for an avocat and the agent confidentiel of half the Courts of Europe to execute the measures of a polka in the presence of a client, or I would indeed have jumped up and danced with glee. The happy thoughts were hammering away in my mind: “The old one is much too old—the young one she never sees!” and I could have knelt down and kissed the hem of her gown for the exquisite indifference with which she had uttered those magic words: “Oh! I hardly ever see him!”—words which converted my brightest hopes into glowing possibilities.
But, as it was, I held my emotions marvellously in check, and with perfect sang-froid once more asked the beauteous creature how I could be of service to her in her need.
“Of late, Monsieur,” she said, as she raised a pair of limpid, candid blue eyes to mine, “my position in Mr. Farewell’s house has become intolerable. He pursues me with his attentions, and he has become insanely jealous. He will not allow me to speak to anyone, and has even forbidden M. Cazalès, his own nephew, the house. Not that I care about that,” she added with an expressive shrug of the shoulders.
“He has forbidden M. Cazalès the house,” rang like a paean in my ear. “Not that she cares about that! Tra la, la, la, la, la!” What I actually contrived to say with a measured and judicial air was:
“If you deign to entrust me with the conduct of your affairs, I would at once communicate with the English lawyers in your name and suggest to them the advisability of appointing another guardian. . . . I would suggest, for instance . . . er . . . that I . . .”
“How can you do that, Monsieur?” she broke in somewhat impatiently, “seeing that I cannot possibly tell you who these lawyers are?”
“Eh?” I queried, gasping.