M. Gandelu had a shrewd head, and Andre, remembering the old man’s kindness to him on all occasions, determined to confide the matter to him, and with this object he called on him the next morning as the clock was striking nine. His surprise was extreme when he saw Gaston de Gandelu in the courtyard. He was just the same looking Gaston, the lover of Madame de Chantemille, to the outward eye, but some grave calamity had evidently entirely changed the inner man. He was smoking his cigar with an air of desperation, and seemed to be utterly weary of the world and its belongings.
At the moment Andre entered the young man caught sight of him.
“Halloo!” said he; “here is my artistic friend. I lay ten to one that you have come to ask my father to do you a favor.”
“You are quite right; is he at home?”
“The governor is in the sulks; he has shut himself up, and will not see me.”
“You are joking.”
“Not I; the old man is a regular despot, and I am sick of everything.”
Noticing that one of the grooms was listening, Gaston had sufficient sense to draw Andre a little on one side.
“Do you know,” asked he, “that the governor has docked my screw and vows that he will advertise himself as not responsible for the debts of yours truly; but I cannot think he will do so, for that would be a regular smash-up for me. You haven’t such a trifle as ten thousand francs about you that you could lend me, have you? I’d give twenty thousand for the accommodation when I came of age.”
“I must say—,” began Andre.