"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."
I ran to my office, took out the money and gave it to him. Saturday came but no count, and as I had no money I pawned my diamond ring and replaced the hundred louis I owed the till. Three or four days afterwards, as I was at the Comedie Francaise, the Count de la Tour d'Auvergne came up to me and began to apologize. I replied by shewing my hand, and telling him that I had pawned my ring to save my honour. He said, with a melancholy air, that a man had failed to keep his word with him, but he would be sure to give me the hundred louis on the Saturday following, adding, "I give you my word of honour."
"Your word of honour is in my box, so let's say nothing about that. You can repay me when you like."
The count grew as pale as death.