The report proceeded as usual, but it was quite evident that M. Fortunat’s thoughts were elsewhere. He paused each moment to listen eagerly for the slightest sound outside, for before receiving the coal-merchant he had told Victor Chupin to run to the Rue de Courcelles and ask M. Casimir for news of the Count de Chalusse. He had done this more than an hour before; and Victor Chupin, who was usually so prompt, had not yet made his appearance.
At last, however, he returned, whereupon M. Fortunat dismissed the cashier, and addressed his messenger: “Well?” he asked.
“He is no longer living. They think he died without a will, and that the pretty young lady will be turned out of the house.”
This information agreed so perfectly with M. Fortunat’s presentiments that he did not even wince, but calmly asked: “Will Casimir keep his appointment?”
“He told me that he would endeavor to come, and I’d wager a hundred to one that he will be there; he would travel ten leagues to put something good into his stomach.”
M. Fortunat’s opinion coincided with Chupin’s. “Very well,” said he. “Only you were a long time on the road, Victor.”
“That’s true, m’sieur; but I had a little matter of my own to attend to—a matter of a hundred francs, if you please.”
M. Fortunat knit his brows angrily. “It’s only right to attend to business,” said he; “but you think too much of money, Victor—altogether too much. You are insatiable.”
The young man proudly lifted his head, and with an air of importance, replied: “I have so many responsibilities——”
“Responsibilities!—you?”