"Nothing will be a sacrifice to you, say you? To you, who are so lovely?" he exclaimed, with a voice trembling and broken with agitation, as he went towards the duchess. "Well, then, I will lend you this sum, on one condition,—one condition only,—and I swear to you—"
He could not finish his declaration.
By one of those singular contradictions of human nature, at the sight of the singularly ugly features of M. Ferrand, at the strange and whimsical thoughts which arose in Madame de Lucenay's mind, at his ridiculous pretensions, which she guessed in spite of her disquietude and anxiety, she burst into a fit of laughter, so hearty, so loud, and so excessive, that the disconcerted notary reeled back. Then, without allowing him a moment to utter another word, the duchess gave way still more to her increasing mirth, lowered her veil, and, between two bursts of irrepressible laughter, she said to the notary, overwhelmed by hatred, rage, and fury:
"Really, I should much rather prefer asking this advance from M. de Lucenay."
She then left the room, laughing so heartily that, even when the door of his room was closed, the notary heard her still.
Jacques Ferrand no sooner recovered his reason than he cursed his imprudence; but he became reassured on reflecting that the duchess could not allude to this adventure without compromising herself. Still, the day had been unpropitious, and he was plunged in thought when the door of his study opened, and Madame Séraphin entered in great agitation.
"Ah, Ferrand," she exclaimed, "you were right when you declared that, one day or other, we should be ruined for having allowed her to live!"
"Who?"
"That cursed little girl!"
"What do you mean?"