“My brother ought not to hesitate,” interposed Louis: “he will be arrested here, thrown into prison, vilified in court, and—who knows?”
“We all know well enough that he will be convicted,” grumbled the old marquis. “These are the benefits of the immortal revolution, as it is called. Ah, in my day we three would have taken our swords, jumped on our horses, and, dashing into Tarascon, would soon have—. But those good old days are passed. To-day we have to run away.”
“There is no time to lose,” observed Louis.
“True,” said the marquis, “but to fly, to go abroad, one must have money; and I have none by me to give him.”
“Father!”
“No, I have none. Ah, what a prodigal old fool I have been! If I only had a hundred louis!”
Then he told Louis to open the secretary, and hand him the money-box.
The box contained only nine hundred and twenty francs in gold.
“Nine hundred and twenty francs,” cried the marquis: “it will never do for the eldest son of our house to fly the country with this paltry sum.”
He sat lost in reflection. Suddenly his brow cleared, and he told Louis to open a secret drawer in the secretary, and bring him a small casket.