However, M. Casimir resumed his reading: “‘If I apply to you again, if from the depth of infamy into which I have fallen, I again call upon you for help, it is because I am at the end of my resources—because, before I die, I must see my son’s future assured. It is not a fortune that I ask for him, but sufficient to live upon, and I expect to receive it from you.’”
Once more the valet paused in his perusal of the letter to remark: “There it is again sufficient to live upon, and I expect to receive it from you!—Excellent! Women are remarkable creatures, upon my word! But listen to the rest! ‘It is absolutely necessary that I should see you as soon as possible. Oblige me, therefore, by calling to-morrow, October 15th, at the Hotel de Homburg, in the Rue du Helder. You will ask for Madame Lucy Huntley, and they will conduct you to me. I shall expect you from three o’clock to six. Come. I implore you, come. It is painful to me to add that if I do not hear from you, I am resolved to demand and OBTAIN—no matter what may be the consequences—the means which I have, so far, asked of you on my bended knees and with clasped hands.’”
Having finished the letter, M. Casimir laid it on the table, and poured out a glassful of brandy, which he drained at a single draught. “And that’s all,” he remarked. “No signature—not even an initial. It was a so-called respectable woman who wrote that. They never sign their notes, the hussies! for fear of compromising themselves, as I’ve reason to know.” And so saying, he laughed the idiotic laugh of a man who has been drinking immoderately. “If I had time,” he resumed, “I should make some inquiries about this Madame Lucy Huntley—a feigned name, evidently. I should like to know—— But what’s the matter with you, Monsieur Fortunat? You are as pale as death. Are you ill?”
To tell the truth, the agent did look as if he were indisposed. “Thanks,” he stammered. “I’m very well, only I just remembered that some one is waiting for me.”
“Who?”
“A client.”
“Nonsense!” rejoined the valet; “make some excuse; let him go about his business. Aren’t you rich enough? Pour us out another glass of wine; it will make you all right again.”
M. Fortunat complied, but he performed the task so awkwardly, or, rather, so skilfully, that he drew toward him, with his sleeve, the letter which was lying beside M. Casimir’s plate. “To your health,” said the valet. “To yours,” replied M. Fortunat. And in drawing back the arm he had extended to chink glasses with his guest, he caused the letter to fall on his knees.
M. Casimir, who had not observed this successful manoeuvre, was trying to light his cigar; and while vainly consuming a large quantity of matches in the attempt, he exclaimed: “What you just said, my friend, means that you would like to desert me. That won’t do, my dear fellow! You are going home with me; and I will read you some love-letters from a woman of the world. Then we will go to Mourloup’s, and play a game of billiards. That’s the place to enjoy one’s self. You’ll see Joseph, of the Commarin household, a splendid comedian.”
“Very well; but first I must settle the score here.”