Noel could bear it no longer: and his anger burst forth.
“Enough,” he cried decidedly. “Do as you please, M. Clergeot, but have done with your advice. I prefer the lawyer’s plain prose. If I have committed follies, I can repair them, and in a way that would surprise you. Yes, M. Clergeot, I can procure twenty-two thousand francs; I could have a hundred thousand to-morrow morning, if I saw fit. They would only cost me the trouble of asking for them. But that I will not do. My extravagance, with all due deference to you, will remain a secret as heretofore. I do not choose that my present embarrassed circumstances should be even suspected. I will not relinquish, for your sake, that at which I have been aiming, the very day it is within my grasp.”
“He resists,” thought the usurer; “he is less deeply involved than I imagined.”
“So,” continued the advocate, “put your bills in the hands of your lawyer. Let him sue me. In eight days, I shall be summoned to appear before the Tribunal de Commerce, and I shall ask for the twenty-five days’ delay, which the judges always grant to an embarrassed debtor. Twenty-five and eight, all the world over, make just thirty-three days. That is precisely the respite I need. You have two alternatives: either accept from me at once a new bill for twenty-four thousand francs payable in six weeks, or else, as I have an appointment, go off to your lawyer.”
“And in six weeks,” replied the usurer, “you will be in precisely the same condition you are to-day. And forty-five days more of Juliette will cost—”
“M. Clergeot,” interrupted Noel, “long before that time, my position will be completely changed. But I have finished,” he added rising; “and my time is valuable.”
“One moment, you impatient fellow!” exclaimed the good-natured banker, “you said twenty-four thousand francs at forty-five days?”
“Yes. That is about seventy-five per cent,—pretty fair interest.”
“I never cavil about interest,” said M. Clergeot; “only—” He looked slyly at Noel scratching his chin violently, a movement which in him indicated how insensibly his brain was at work. “Only,” he continued, “I should very much like to know what you are counting upon.”
“That I will not tell you. You will know it ere long, in common with all the world.”