"Will you be sure always to remember?" said M. Ferraud to the bewildered woman. "Herman Stüler; Karl Breitmann, who was the great grandson of Napoleon, died of a gunshot in Africa. If you will always remember that, why even Paris will be possible some day."
Hildegarde was beginning to understand. She was coming to bless this little man.
"I do not believe that the money under the bed is safe there. I shall, if you wish, make arrangements with the local agents of the Credit Legonnais to take over the sum, without question, and to issue you two drafts, one on London and the other on New York, or in two letters of credit. Two millions; it is a big sum to let repose under one's bed, anywhere, let alone Corsica, where the amount might purchase half the island."
"I am, then, a rich man; no more crusades, no more stale bread and cheap tobacco, no more turning my cuffs and collars and clipping the frayed edges of my trousers. I am fortunate. There is a joke, too. Picard and his friends advanced me five thousand francs for the enterprise."
"I marvel where they got it!"
"I am sorry that I was rough with you."
"I bear you not the slightest ill-will. I never have. Herman Stüler;
I must remember to have them make out the drafts in that name."
Breitmann appeared to be sleeping again. After waiting a moment or two, his guardian-angel tiptoed out.
An hour went by.
"Hildegarde, have you any money?"