“It was at the time,” says one, “when I drove that bright chestnut team that I had bought for twenty thousand francs of the eldest son of the Duke de Sermeuse.”
“I remember,” replies the other; “for at that moment I gave six thousand francs a month to little Cabriole of the Varieties.”
And, improbable as this may seem, it is the exact truth; for one was manager of a manufacturing enterprise that sank ten millions; and the other was at the head of a financial operation that ruined five hundred families. They had houses like the one in the Rue du Cirque, mistresses more expensive than Mme. Zelie Cadelle, and servants like those who were now talking within a step of Maxence and Marius de Tregars. The latter had resumed their conversation; and the oldest one, the coachman with the red nose, was saying to his younger comrade,
“This Vincent affair must be a lesson to you. If ever you find yourself again in a house where so much money is spent, remember that it hasn’t cost much trouble to make it, and manage somehow to get as big a share of it as you can.”
“That’s what I’ve always done wherever I have been.”
“And, above all, make haste to fill your bag, because, you see, in houses like that, one is never sure, one day, whether, the next, the gentleman will not be at Mazas, and the lady at St. Lazares.”
They had done their second bowl of punch, and finished their conversation. They paid, and left.
And Maxence and M. de Tregars were able, at last, to throw down their cards.
Maxence was very pale; and big tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“What disgrace!” he murmured: “This, then, is the other side of my father’s existence! This is the way in which he spent the millions which he stole; whilst, in the Rue St. Gilles, he deprived his family of the necessaries of life!”