“I can’t do better, but I must confess when all’s said that you were not the person to whom my fevered imagination offered such ardent homage.”
At supper I jested, pretended to be astonished at the count’s indiscretion, and boasted of being cured of my passion. Babet called me a villain, and maintained that I was far from cured; but she was wrong, as the incident had disgusted me with her, and had attached me to the count, who, indeed, was a man of the most amiable character. Nevertheless, our friendship might have been a fatal one, as the reader will see presently.
One evening, when I was at the Italian theatre, Tour d’Auvergne came up to me and asked me to lend him a hundred louis, promising to repay me next Saturday.
“I haven’t got the money,” I said, “but my purse and all it contains is at your service.”
“I want a hundred louis, my dear fellow, and immediately, as I lost them at play yesterday evening at the Princess of Anhalt’s.”
“But I haven’t got them.”
“The receiver of the lottery ought always to be able to put his hand on a hundred louis.”
“Yes, but I can’t touch my cash-box; I have to give it up this day week.”
“So you can; as I will repay you on Saturday. Take a hundred louis from the box, and put in my word of honour instead; don’t you think that is worth a hundred Louis?”
“I have nothing to say to that, wait for me a minute.”