“HENRY DE CROISENOIS.”
“And so,” growled Mascarin, “he has flung away five thousand francs, and asks me to find it for him in my coffers. Ah, you fool, if I did not want the grand name that you have inherited from your ancestors, a name that you daily bespatter and soil, you might whistle for your five thousand francs.”
However, as Croisenois was absolutely necessary to him, Mascarin slowly took from his safe five notes of a thousand francs each, and handed them to the man.
“Do you want a receipt?” asked the man.
“No; this letter is sufficient, but wait a bit;” and Mascarin, with an eye to the future, drew a twenty franc piece from his pocket, and placing it on the table, said in his most honeyed accents,—
“There, my friend, is something for yourself.”
“No, sir,” returned the man; “I always ask wages enough to prevent the necessity of accepting presents.” And with this dignified reply he bowed with the stiff air of a Quaker, and walked rigidly out of the room.
The agent was absolutely thunderstruck. In all his thirty years’ experience he had never come across anything like this.
“I can hardly believe my senses,” muttered he; “where on earth did the Marquis pick this fellow up? Can it be that he is sharper than I fancied?”
Suddenly a new and terrifying idea flashed across his mind. “Can it be,” said he, “that the fellow is not a real servant, after all? I have so many enemies that one day they may strive to crush me, and however skilfully I may play my cards, some one may hold a better hand.” This idea alarmed him greatly, for he was in a position in which he had nothing to fear; for when a great work is approaching completion, the anxiety of the promoter becomes stronger and stronger. “No, no,” he continued; “I am getting too full of suspicions;” and with these words he endeavored to put aside the vague terrors which were creeping into his soul.