“But you are a gentleman, and with noble blood. Could you stoop to be the friend of—” Here she hesitated, and, after an effort, added, “A Jew?”
“Try me, prove me,” said I, stooping till my lips touched her hand.
She did not withdraw her hand, but left it in mine, as I pressed it again and again to my lips.
“He told you, then,” said she, in a half-whisper, “that our house was on the brink of ruin; that in a few weeks, or even less, my father would not face the exchange,—did he not say this?”
“I will tell you all,” said I, “for I know you will forgive me when I repeat what will offend you to hear, but what is safer you should hear.” And, in the fewest words I could, I related what Marsac had told me of the house and its difficulties. When I came to that part which represented Oppovich as the mere agent of the great Parisian banker,—whose name I was not quite sure of,—I faltered and hesitated.
“Go on,” said she, gently. “He told you that Baron Nathanheimer was about to withdraw his protection from us?”
I slightly bent my head in affirmation.
“But did he say why?”
“Something there was of rash enterprise, of speculation unauthorized—of—”
“Of an old man with failing faculties,” said she, in the same low tone; “and of a young girl, little versed in business, but self-confident and presumptuous enough to think herself equal to supply his place. I have no doubt he was very frank on this head. He wrote to Baron Elias, who sent me his letter,—the letter he wrote of us while eating our bread. It was not handsome of him,—was it, sir?”