“I would answer you, sir,” he uttered, “that your father’s assent is sufficient for me. My suit has nothing but is honorable. Your sister may not like me: that is a misfortune; but it is not irreparable. When she knows me better, I venture to hope that she will overcome her unjust prejudices. Therefore I shall persist.”
Maxence insisted no more. He was irritated at M. Costeclar’s coolness; but it was not his intention to push things further.
“There will always be time,” he thought, “to resort to violent measures.”
But when he reported this conversation to his sister,
“It is clear,” he said, “that, between our father and that man, there is a community of interests which I am unable to discover. What business have they together? In what respect can your marriage either help or injure them? I must see, try and find out exactly who is this Costeclar: the deuse take him!”
He started out the same day, and had not far to go.
M. Costeclar was one of those personalities which only bloom in Paris, and are only met in Paris,—the same as cab-horses, and young ladies with yellow chignons.
He knew everybody, and everybody knew him.
He was well known at the bourse, in all the principal restaurants, where he called the waiters by their first names, at the box-office of the theatres, at all the pool-rooms, and at the European Club, otherwise called the Nomadic Club, of which he was a member.
He operated at the bourse: that was sure. He was said to own a third interest in a stock-broker’s office. He had a good deal of business with M. Jottras, of the house of Jottras and Brother, and M. Saint Pavin, the manager of a very popular journal, “The Financial Pilot.”