Four years? Five hundred thousand francs! These words, these figures, burst like bombshells on old Tabaret’s brain. Half a million! In that case, Noel was utterly ruined. But then—
“It is a great deal,” said he, succeeding by desperate efforts in hiding his emotion; “it is enormous. M. Gerdy, however, has resources.”
“He!” interrupted the usurer, shrugging his shoulders. “Not even that!” he added, snapping his fingers; “He is utterly cleaned out. But, if he owes you money, do not be anxious. He is a sly dog. He is going to be married; and I have just renewed bills of his for twenty-six thousand francs. Good-bye, M. Tabaret.”
The usurer hurried away, leaving the poor old fellow standing like a milestone in the middle of the pavement. He experienced something of that terrible grief which breaks a father’s heart when he begins to realize that his dearly loved son is perhaps the worst of scoundrels.
And, yet, such was his confidence in Noel that he again struggled with his reason to resist the suspicions which tormented him. Perhaps the usurer had been slandering his friend. People who lend their money at more than ten per cent are capable of anything. Evidently he had exaggerated the extent of Noel’s follies.
And, supposing it were true? Have not many men done just such insane things for women, without ceasing to be honest?
As he was about to enter his house, a whirlwind of silk, lace, and velvet, stopped the way. A pretty young brunette came out and jumped as lightly as a bird into the blue brougham.
Old Tabaret was a gallant man, and the young woman was most charming, but he never even looked at her. He passed in, and found his concierge standing, cap in hand, and tenderly examining a twenty franc piece.
“Ah, sir,” said the man, “such a pretty young person, and so lady-like! If you had only been here five minutes sooner.”
“What lady? why?”