“And this man’s name?”
“Is Isidore Fortunat. I saved his card for you. Here it is.”
M. Wilkie took it up, placed it carefully in his pocket, and then exclaimed: “That being the case, I consent to sign, but after this you need not complain. Two millions at five per cent. ought to greatly alleviate one’s sufferings.”
Madame d’Argeles did not deign to notice this delicate irony. “I will tell you in advance to what purpose I intend to apply this sum,” she said.
“Ah!”
“I intend one of these two millions to serve as the dowry of a young girl who would have been the Count de Chalusse’s sole legatee, if his death had not been so sudden and so unexpected.”
“And the other one?”
“The other I intend to invest for you in such a way that you can only touch the interest of it, so that you will not want for bread after you have squandered your inheritance, even to the very last penny.”
This wise precaution could not fail to shock such a brilliant young man as M. Wilkie. “Do you take me for a fool?” he exclaimed. “I may appear very generous, but I am shrewd enough, never you fear.”
“Sign,” interrupted Madame d’Argeles, coldly.