Well, in a more elevated sphere, in the world of speculation, it is precisely that lucrative and honorable industry which M. d’Escajoul carries on. Thoroughly master of his ground, possessing a superior scent and an imperturbable patience, always awake, and continually on the watch, he never operates unless he is sure to win.
And the day when the manager of some company has violated his charter or stretched the law a little too far, he may be sure to see M. d’Escajoul appear, and ask for some little—advantages, and proffer, in exchange, the most thorough discretion, and even his kind offices.
Two or three of his friends have heard him say,
“Who would dare to blame me? It’s very moral, what I am doing.”
Such is the man who came in, smiling, just as Maxence and Marius de Tregars had sat down at the table. M. de Tregars rose to receive him.
“You will breakfast with us?” he said.
“Thank you,” answered M. d’Escajoul. “I breakfasted precisely at eleven, as usual. Punctuality is a politeness which a man owes to his stomach. But I will accept with pleasure a drop of that old Cognac which you offered me the other evening.”
He took a seat; and the valet brought him a glass, which he set on the edge of the table. Then,
“I have just seen our man,” he said.
Maxence understood that he was referring to M. de Thaller.