"I wish to know how Mademoiselle Mariette Moreau's address comes to be on this card!" repeated Louis coldly.
"The devil! he must have lost his senses!" said the usurer. "My dear young fellow, I speak to you of millions, of thirty thousand francs yearly, and you answer by speaking of—grisettes!"
"When I ask a question, monsieur," thundered Louis, "I expect a reply!"
"And you assume such a tone with me, my young friend!"
"If my tone does not suit you, I cannot help it."
"The deuce, my young fellow!" cried the usurer, fiercely. "But, bah!" he added, twirling his black moustache caressingly between his fingers, "I have proved my bravery scores of times—I, an old soldier, perforated with bullets, can pass such words unnoticed. My dear client, the name and address of that little girl were found on my card, because I wrote them down that I might not forget where to find her."
"You know Mademoiselle Mariette then?"
"Most assuredly!"
"You court her?"
"Once in a while."