“Since it has been inspected by such good company, I confess curiosity to look at it myself. But your master is ill; I can not speak with him; perhaps you––”
“I, Monsieur!” Indignantly.
“For five hundred francs, François?”
Like oil upon the troubled waters, this assurance wrought a swift change in the valet’s manner.
“To oblige Monsieur!” he answered, softly, but his eyes gleamed like a lynx’s. His stateliness was a sham; his perfidy and hypocrisy surprised even the land baron.
“You have no compunctions about selling a reputation, François?”
“Reputation is that!” said the man, contemptuously snapping his fingers, emboldened by his compact with the caller. “Francs and sous are everything.”
“Lord, how servants imbibe the ideas of their betters!” quoth the patroon, as he left the house and strode down the graveled walk, decapitating the begonias with his cane.
Furtively the valet watched his departing figure. “Why does he want it?” he thought.