“I have scarcely three hundred and twenty-seven francs!” answered he with a laugh. “What is the state of your finances?”
Mascarin made a grimace. “I am not so well off as you; and besides,” he continued in a low voice, as though speaking to himself, “I have certain ties which you do not possess.”
For the first time during this interview a cloud spread over the doctor’s countenance.
“Great Heavens!” said he, “and I was depending on you for three thousand francs, which I require urgently.”
Mascarin smiled slyly at the doctor’s uneasiness. “Don’t worry,” he answered. “You can have that; there ought to be some six or eight thousand francs in the safe. But that is all, and that is the last of our common capital,—this after twenty years of toil, danger, and anxiety, and we have not twenty years before us to make a fresh fortune in.”
“Yes,” continued Mascarin, “we are getting old, and therefore have the greater reason for making one grand stroke to assure our fortune. Were I to fall ill to-morrow, all would go to smash.”
“Quite true,” returned the doctor, with a slight shudder.
“We must, and that is certain, venture on a bold stroke. I have said this for years, and woven a web of gigantic proportions. Do you now know why at this last moment I appeal to you, and not to Catenac for assistance? If only one out of two operations that I have fully explained to you succeeds, our fortune is made.”
“I follow you exactly.”
“The question now is whether the chance of success is sufficiently great to warrant our going on with these undertakings. Think it over and let me have your opinion.”