When Marius de Tregars had finally determined to compel the bold rascals who had swindled his father to disgorge, he had taken in the Rue Lafitte a small, plainly-furnished apartment on the entresol, a fit dwelling for the man of action, the tent in which he takes shelter on the eve of battle; and he had to wait upon him an old family servant, whom he had found out of place, and who had for him that unquestioning and obstinate devotion peculiar to Breton servants.
It was this excellent man who came at the first stroke of the bell to open the door. And, as soon as Maxence had told him his name,
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “my master has been expecting you with a terrible impatience.”
It was so true, that M. de Tregars himself appeared at the same moment, and, leading Maxence into the little room which he used as a study,
“Do you know,” he said whilst shaking him cordially by the hand, “that you are almost an hour behind time?”
Maxence had, among others the detestable fault, sure indication of a weak nature, of being never willing to be in the wrong, and of having always an excuse ready. On this occasion, the excuse was too tempting to allow it to escape; and quick he began telling how he had been detained by M. Chapelain, and how he had heard from the old lawyer what had taken place at the Mutual Credit office.
“I know the scene already,” said M. de Tregars. And, fixing upon Maxence a look of friendly raillery,
“Only,” he added, “I attributed your want of punctuality to another reason, a very pretty one this time, a brunette.”
A purple cloud spread over Maxence’s cheeks.
“What!” he stammered, “you know?”