The two rivals in their own principality, the one orb on its decline, the other like the rising sun, sat down upon four chairs before the Cafe de Paris. Maxime took care to place a certain distance between himself and some old fellows who habitually sunned themselves like wall-fruit at that hour in the afternoon, to dry out their rheumatic affections. He had excellent reasons for distrusting old men.
“Have you debts?” said Maxime, to the young count.
“If I had none, should I be worthy of being your successor?” replied La Palferine.
“In putting that question to you I don’t place the matter in doubt; I only want to know if the total is reasonable; if it goes to the five or the six?”
“Six what?”
“Figures; whether you owe fifty or one hundred thousand? I have owed, myself, as much as six hundred thousand.”
La Palferine raised his hat with an air as respectful as it was humorous.
“If I had sufficient credit to borrow a hundred thousand francs,” he replied, “I should forget my creditors and go and pass my life in Venice, amid masterpieces of painting and pretty women and—”
“And at my age what would you be?” asked Maxime.
“I should never reach it,” replied the young count.