“I saved you, Monsieur, by not recognizing the prisoner, May. In your turn, aid me! By noon, day after to-morrow, I must have two hundred and sixty thousand francs.
“I have sufficient confidence in your honor to apply to you.
“Maurice d’Escorval.”
For a moment Martial stood bewildered, then, springing to a table, he began writing, without noticing that the messenger was looking over his shoulder:
“Monsieur—Not day after to-morrow, but this evening. My fortune and my life are at your disposal. It is but a slight return for the generosity you showed in retiring, when, beneath the rags of May, you recognized your former enemy, now your devoted friend,
“Martial de Sairmeuse.”
He folded this letter with a feverish hand, and giving it to the messenger with a louis, he said:
“Here is the answer, make haste!”
But the messenger did not go.
He slipped the letter into his pocket, then with a hasty movement he cast his red beard and wig upon the floor.