"One must be a wizard to find this out; she wears a black veil, so thick that her face cannot be seen."
"Good, good! I'll take a look at her when I go out."
The clerk left the room.
"Where the devil is he gone to?" said Charles to himself. "If these reports are absurd, so much the better. Never mind, I prefer to have my money. I will buy the chateau they have spoken to me of, with Gothic towers of the time of Louis XIV.; that will give me a noble appearance. It will not be like my affair with this prude of a Madame d'Harville—fine game! Oh, no; I have not made my expenses, as the stupid old portress in the Rue du Temple said, with her fantastic periwig. This pleasantry has cost meat least a thousand crowns. It is true, the furniture remains; and I can compromise the marquise. But here is the scrivener."
Ferrand returned, holding in his hand some papers, which he gave to
Robert.
"Here," said he to him, "are three hundred and fifty thousand francs in Treasury notes. In a few days we will regulate the interest. Write me a receipt."
"Eh!" cried Charles, stupefied. "Oh! now don't think, at least, that
I—"
"I think nothing."
"But—"
"This receipt!"