"There," he cried; "I receive a letter like that—I, the Baron Giraud—of the high finance."
"My poor friend, calm yourself," urged the Vicomte.
It is easy enough to tell another to calm himself, but who among us can compass such a frame of mind when he is hit in a vital spot? The Baron wiped his forehead nervously.
"But," he said, "is it true?"
The Vicomte spread out his hands, and never glanced at me as an ordinary man would have done towards one who shared his knowledge.
"Who can tell—but yes! So far as human foresight goes—it is true enough."
"Then what am I to do?"
I stared at the great financier asking such a question. Assuredly he, of all men, needed no one's counsel in a matter of money.
"Do as I have done," said the Vicomte; "send your money out of the country."
An odd look came over the Baron's face. He glanced from one of us to the other—with the cunning, and somewhat the look, of a cat. The Vicomte was blandly indifferent. As for me, I had, I am told, a hard face in those days—hardened by weather and a disbelief in human nature which has since been modified.