“But I had the baron’s word.”
“Oh! his word!”
“I had his solemn promise.”
“It is sometimes impossible to keep one’s promises, sir.”
The consequences of this disappointment must have been terrible, for the marquis could not maintain his self-control. Still he strove valiantly to conceal his emotion. He thought to himself that if he allowed this man to see what a terrible blow this really was, he would virtually confess his absolute ruin, and have to renounce the struggle, and own himself vanquished and lost. So, summoning all his energy, he mastered his emotion in some degree, and, instead of appearing desperate, succeeded in looking only irritated and annoyed. “In short,” he resumed, angrily, “you have brought no money! I counted on a hundred thousand francs this morning. Nothing! This is kind on the baron’s part! But probably he doesn’t understand the embarrassing position in which he places me.”
“Excuse me, Monsieur le Marquis, he understands it so well that, instead of informing you by a simple note, he sent me to acquaint you with his sincere regret. When I left him an hour ago, he was really disconsolate. He was particularly anxious I should tell you that it was not his fault. He counted upon the payment of two very large amounts, and both of these have failed him.”
The marquis had now recovered a little from the shock, though he was still very pale. He looked at Pascal with evident distrust, for he knew with what sweet excuses well-bred people envelope their refusals. “So the baron is disconsolate,” he remarked, in a tone of perceptible irony.
“He is indeed!”
“Poor baron! Ah! I pity him—pity him deeply.”
As cold and as unmoved as a statue, Pascal seemed quite unconscious of the effect of the message he had brought—quite unconscious of Valorsay’s sufferings and self-constraint. “You think I am jesting, monsieur,” he said, quietly, “but I assure you that the baron is very short of money just now.”