He-he! the idol of the women, the envy of men, the paragon of the best company in Paris, the renowned duelist, not to produce more effect on a miserable notary! It was odious; although he was tete-a-tete with Jacques Ferrand, his self-pride revolted.
"Where are the bills?"
With the ends of his fingers, hard as iron, and covered with red hair, the notary, without answering, struck on a large portfolio of leather placed near him.
Decided to be equally laconic, although bursting with rage, the viscount took from the pocket of his coat a small book of Russian leather, clasped with golden hasps, drew out forty-one thousand franc notes and showed them to the notary.
"How much?" asked he.
"Forty thousand francs."
"Give them to me."
"Here, and let us finish quickly, sir; do your business, pay yourself, hand me back the papers," said the viscount, throwing the packet impatiently on the table.
The notary took them, arose and examined them near the window, turning them over one by one with an attention so scrupulous and so insulting to Saint Remy, that he grew pale with rage.
The notary, as if he had suspected the thoughts which agitated the viscount, shook his head, half turned toward him, and said, in an undefinable tone, "There are such things as—"