“Go on, your vein is wonderful this morning.”
“A Frenchman is the travesty of human nature; every sentiment of his is the parody of what it ought to be. He is grave over trifles and evokes mirth out of the deepest melancholy; he takes sweet wine with his oysters, and when the post has brought him letters that may actually decide his destiny, he throws them aside to read a critique on the last ballet, or revive his recollections of its delight by gazing on a colored print of the ballerina.”
“I'm getting tired of the Gitana,” said Pracontal, throwing the picture from him; “hand me the chocolate. As to the letters, I have kept them for you to read, for, although I know your spluttering, splashing, hissing language, for all purposes of talk, its law jargon is quite beyond me.”
“Your lawyer—so far as I have seen—is most careful in his avoidance of technicals with you; he writes clearly and succinctly.”
“Break open that great packet, and tell me about its clear and distinct contents.”
“I said succinct, not distinct, O man of many mistakes. This is from Kelson himself, and contains an enclosure.” He broke the seal as he spoke, and read,—
Dear Sir,—I am exceedingly distressed to be obliged to inform you that the arrangement which, in my last letter, I had understood to be finally and satisfactorily concluded between myself on your part, and Mr. Sedley of Furnival's Inn, on the part of Mr. Bramleigh, is now rescinded and broken, Mr. Bramleigh having entered a formal protest, denying all concurrence or approval, and in evidence of his dissent has actually given notice of action against his solicitor, for unauthorized procedure. The bills therefore drawn by you I herewith return as no longer negotiable. I am forced to express not only my surprise, but my indignation, at the mode in which we have been treated in this transaction. Awaiting your instructions as to what step you will deem it advisable to take next,—
I am, dear sir, your obedient servant,
J. Kelson.
“This is a bad affair,” said Longworth. “That twenty thousand that you thought to have lived on for two years, astonishing the vulgar world, like some Count of Monte Cristo, has proved a dissolving view, and there you sit a candidate for one of the Pope's prisons, which, if accounts speak truly, are about the vilest dens of squalor and misery in Europe.”