"Come, come," said he, holding his head high; "if I have talked like a fool and an ingrate, money is a beautiful thing." Then stopping to reflect awhile he continued:
"Let us see now,—calmness by all means,—we will undertake the thing well and slowly. My spy will know this evening where the archduke's mistress lives, at least if she lives in the palace, which is not probable. Let me find out where she lives," added he, stroking his chin with a meditative air. "Zounds, I will send to her that old milliner, Madame Doucet. It is the old way and always the best with these actresses and such women, for, after all, the mistress of a prince is no better. She came, her head uncovered, to throw herself unceremoniously into our conversation; she had no discretion to protect. So I cannot have a better go-between, a more suitable one, than old Mother Doucet. I will write to her at once."
M. Pascal was occupied in writing at his desk when his valet entered.
"What is it?" asked the financier, abruptly. "I did not ring."
"Monsieur, it is a lady."
"I have no time."
"She has come for a letter of credit."
"Let her go to the counting-room."
"This lady wishes to speak to M. Pascal."
"Impossible. Let her go to the counting-room."