Louis was gazing at him in consternation, unable to believe his senses.
"You make that offer to me?" he queried, rousing himself from his stupefaction.
"Yes, and I am most happy to make it."
"To me?—Louis Richard?"
"To you, Louis Richard."
"Richard is a common name, monsieur; you must take me for some one else."
"Not at all! I know whom I am addressing; Louis Desiré Richard, only son of Alexander Timoleon Benedict Richard, aged sixty-seven years, born at Brie-Comte-Robert; domiciled at 23 Rue de Grenelle, public scribe by profession. As you see, there is no error, my young friend."
"If you know my family so well, monsieur, you must be aware that my poverty does not permit me to contract such a loan."
"Your poverty?—poor boy!"
"But—"