"Where are the bills?" inquired the viscount, abruptly.
With the point of one of his fingers, as hard as iron, and covered with red hair, the notary rapped on a large leathern pocket-book which lay close beside him. Resolved on being as laconic, although trembling with rage, M. de Saint-Remy took from the pocket of his upper coat a Russian leather pocket-book, with gold clasps, from which he drew forth forty notes of a thousand francs each, and showed them to the notary.
"How many are there?" he inquired.
"Forty thousand francs."
"Hand them to me!"
"Take them! and let this have a speedy termination. Ply your trade, pay yourself, and give me the bills," said the viscount, as he threw the notes on the table, with an impatient air.
The notary took up the bank-notes, rose, went close to the window to examine them, turning and re-turning them over and over, one by one, with an attention so scrupulous, and really so insulting for M. de Saint-Rémy, that the viscount actually turned pale with rage. Jacques Ferrand, as if he had guessed the thoughts which were passing in the viscount's mind, shook his head, turned half towards him, and said to him, with an indefinable accent:
"I have seen—"
M. de Saint-Remy, confused for a moment, said, drily:
"What?"