“It is necessary; so come on. You must have confidence, put on a brave face. Hurry and fix yourself up a little; it is getting late, and I am hungry. We will breakfast on our way there.”
Prosper had hardly passed into his bedroom when the bell rang again. M. Verduret opened the door. It was the porter, who handed him a thick letter, and said:
“This letter was left this morning for M. Bertomy; I was so flustered when he came that I forgot to hand it to him. It is a very odd-looking letter; is it not, monsieur?”
It was indeed a most peculiar missive. The address was not written, but formed of printed letters, carefully cut from a book, and pasted on the envelope.
“Oh, ho! what is this?” cried M. Verduret; then turning toward the porter he cried, “Wait.”
He went into the next room, and closed the door behind him; there he found Prosper, anxious to know what was going on.
“Here is a letter for you,” said M. Verduret.
He at once tore open the envelope.
Some bank-notes dropped out; he counted them; there were ten.
Prosper’s face turned purple.