"What! are you still thinking about that?" said Frederick, in an absent tone.
"Certainly, I am thinking about it!"
And he explained his plan anew. By means of the Bourse returns, they would get into communication with financiers, and would thus obtain the hundred thousand francs indispensable as security. But, in order that the print might be transformed into a political journal, it was necessary beforehand to have a large clientèle, and for that purpose to make up their minds to go to some expense—so much for the cost of paper and printing, and for outlay at the office; in short, a sum of about fifteen thousand francs.
"I have no funds," said Frederick.
"And what are we to do, then?" said Deslauriers, with folded arms.
Frederick, hurt by the attitude which Deslauriers was assuming, replied:
"Is that my fault?"
"Ah! very fine. A man has wood in his fire, truffles on his table, a good bed, a library, a carriage, every kind of comfort. But let another man shiver under the slates, dine at twenty sous, work like a convict, and sprawl through want in the mire—is it the rich man's fault?"
And he repeated, "Is it the rich man's fault?" with a Ciceronian irony which smacked of the law-courts.
Frederick tried to speak.