When money was in the way, Monsieur Ramin, though otherwise of a violent temper, had the meekness of a lamb. He bore the treatment of his host with the meekest patience, and having first locked the door so as to make sure that Marguerite would not interrupt them, he watched Monsieur Bonelle attentively, and satisfied himself that the Excellent Opportunity he had been ardently longing for had arrived. “He is going fast,” he thought; “and unless I settle the agreement to-night, and get it drawn up and signed to-morrow, it will be too late.”
“My dear friend,” he at length said aloud, on perceiving that the old gentleman had fairly exhausted himself and was lying panting on his back, “you are indeed a lamentable instance of the lengths to which the greedy lust of lucre will carry our poor human nature. It is really distressing to see Marguerite, a faithful, attached servant, suddenly converted into a tormenting harpy by the prospect of a legacy! Lawyers and priests flock around you like birds of prey, drawn hither by the scent of gold! Oh, the miseries of having delicate health combined with a sound constitution and large property!”
“Ramin,” groaned the old man, looking inquiringly into his visitor’s face, “you are again going to talk to me about that annuity—I know you are!”
“My excellent friend, it is merely to deliver you from a painful position.”
“I am sure, Ramin, you think in your soul I am dying,” whimpered Monsieur Bonelle.
“Absurd, my dear Sir. Dying? I will prove to you that you have never been in better health. In the first place you feel no pain.”
“Excepting from rheumatism,” groaned Monsieur Bonelle.
“Rheumatism! who ever died of rheumatism? and if that be all—”
“No, it is not all,” interrupted the old man with great irritability; “what would you say to the gout getting higher and higher up every day?”
“The gout is rather disagreeable, but if there is nothing else—”