“That can’t be if it is true that his son was born in Paris.”
“May I ask you if there is a large sum to be had, and when?”
“I am truly sorry not to be able to inform you; I am not at liberty to say more.”
During the whole of this conversation, the big abbé had never left off looking at me in an almost offensive way; and, trying to find out what was my native tongue, he had spoken now in English, now in Italian, without being able to make up his mind, in consequence of my speaking both languages equally well.
After an hour’s talk he took leave, asking my permission to come again. I replied that I should be delighted to see him again, and, in my turn, begged him to be so good as to make inquiries amongst his many acquaintances.
He kindly promised to do so, and added that he knew a very aged lady from Champagne very well, and that she might be able to give him much information, which he would transmit to me at once.
As nothing came of it, I sent M. Coiron, a teacher of French, who was giving lessons to my son, to him.
M. de Saint-Fare treated him politely, pleaded indisposition, and made all manner of excuses.
On Coiron presenting himself a second time, he was received very coldly, and simply told that nothing had yet been done.
Moved by his own zeal and without my authority, he made a third attempt. Then the abbé told him plainly that he might discontinue his visits; that the lady knew nothing at all, and that he himself did not want to have anything to do with this fuss.