“Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by,” said he.
The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian’s honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs’ worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence—Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes.
“Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why,” said Fischer.
“Here, young man,” he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door.
When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon’s right hand, and said, as he led him into the house:
“You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?—It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!—”
“Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer,” said the important man. “You are hearty?” he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription.
“Ay, hearty enough for a tontine,” said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright.
“Does heat disagree with you?”
“Quite the contrary.”