“No fear,” Cyprien exclaimed. “I have invested the wretched twenty thousand francs which I had scraped sou by sou out of my poor salary in railway stock. This brings me about three per cent.... It is very little, I grant you, but it is safe and, with the help of my pension, allows me to make both ends meet.... I speculate! No, never in my life!... Then again, what would be the use? I do need it!”
The marquis fell to dreaming. He was seized with an impulse of democratic sympathy towards the fiery little official. The latter was too poor to cause the haughty nobleman to fear any unpleasant familiarity. The very distance that stood between them brought them together. He said suddenly in a sententious tone:
“Who knows, perhaps you are wrong! There are at present opportunities for a man to make a fortune in mines ... and when I see rogues and fools who become rich over night and the next moment I meet an honest man like yourself who takes no advantage of the opportunity, I feel tempted to cry out to him: ‘Go on, go ahead! do not lose this opportunity!... An opportunity which can be met but two or three times in the course of a century—why, surely it is worth it.’”
“Do you think it? Do you think so?” Uncle Cyprien repeated; he was still skeptical but already shaken in his resolves. The marquis went on with that mania for preaching charity in which fortunate gamblers take delight.
“After all, what is the prospect so far as you are concerned? There is really no question of making a fortune. At the most it is a matter of bettering yourself, of gaining the means to treat yourself to a little luxury and a little comfort.... Ah, if I were you ... but enough of this.... I do want to influence you.... Whenever you feel like it, M. Raindal, come to see me.... I live at 2 rue de Bourgogne at the corner of the Place de Palais Bourbon.” They caught up with the master and the abbé, who had stopped at the corner of the Pont de la Concorde. They took leave of each other. When the two brothers were left alone M. Raindal asked: “Will you come to dine with us?”
Cyprien did not hear him; he was dreamily contemplating the peach velvet patches splashed on the discolored horizon by the setting sun.
“I am asking you if you are coming to dine?” M. Raindal repeated.
“What! Wha that?” Cyprien started. “Shall I dine with you?... No, thank you.... Schleifmann is waiting for me at the brasserie.... I ca disappoint him.”
The little green omnibus of the Panthéon-Courcelles was slowly climbing up the street; he shook his brothe hand rapidly.
“Au revoir.... One of these evenings!”