He stopped, as if awaiting an answer; but, as none came, he resumed,
“I repeat, I have no fault to find with Favoral. Only then, now, between us, to lose these hundred and twenty thousand francs would simply be a disaster for me. I know very well that both Chapelain and Desormeaux had also deposited funds with Favoral. But they are rich: one of them owns three houses in Paris, and the other has a good situation; whereas I, these hundred and twenty thousand francs gone, I’d have nothing left but my eyes to weep with. My wife is dying about it. I assure you our position is a terrible one.”
To M. Desclavettes,—as to the baker a few moments before,
“We have nothing,” said Maxence.
“I know it,” exclaimed the old merchant. “I know it as well as you do yourself. And so I have come to beg a little favor of you, which will cost you nothing. When you see Favoral, remember me to him, explain my situation to him, and try to make him give me back my money. He is a hard one to fetch, that’s a fact. But if you go right about it, above all, if our dear Gilberte will take the matter in hand.”
“Sir!”
“Oh! I swear I sha’n’t say a word about it, either to Desormeaux or Chapelain, nor to any one else. Although reimbursed, I’ll make as much noise as the rest,—more noise, even. Come, now, my dear friends, what do you say?”
He was almost crying.
“And where the deuse,” exclaimed Maxence, “do you expect my father to take a hundred and twenty thousand francs? Didn’t you see him go without even taking the money that M. de Thaller had brought?”
A smile appeared upon M. Desclavettes’ pale lips.