"Two hundred francs!" put in Markham at this point.
"I paid it," said Hermia, firmly, "and two hundred more for the donkey. It was all I had. And now, as you see, I must work for my living."
Markham laughed. His responsibilities, it seemed, were increasing with the minutes.
They dined alone at the Hôtel des Rois, Monsieur Duchanel himself doing them the honor of serving the repast, which Hermia soon discovered had none of the characteristics of the vagabond fare promised her—a velvety soup—petits pois à la crème, an entrée, then poulet rôti, salade endive, cheese and coffee—a meal for the gods, which these mortals partook of with unusual enjoyment. The coffee served, their host departed with one last inquiry for their comfort, which more even than the cooking and service betrayed his appreciation of their proper condition.
"Such a dinner!" said Hermia contemptuously when he went out. "I'm so disappointed. Where are your crust and sour wine, John Markham? I'm losing faith in your sincerity. I 'ask for bread' and you give me poulet Duchanel. I want to be bourgeois and everyone treats me like—like a rich American. Shall I never escape?" she sighed.
"To-morrow—" said Markham through a cloud of smoke. "To-morrow you shall be a vagabond. I promise you."
And, as she still looked at him doubtingly, "You don't believe it?
Then look!"
He brought out his hand from a pocket and laid some money on the table. "That's all I have, do you see? Fifty francs—twenty of it at least must go for this dinner—I can observe it in the eye of Monsieur Duchanel—ten more for your chamber Henri Quatre—five for mine—leaving us in all fifteen francs to begin life on. You will not feel like a rich American to-morrow—unless you care to send to your bankers—"
"Sh—!" she whispered theatrically. "There is no such thing as a banker in the world."
"You will wish there were before the week is out."