“It would ruin him,” said Gaudissart. “He might find next day that he owed five hundred francs to charitable institutions, and they refuse to admit that there are any sufferers in Paris except their own. No, look here, my good woman, since you are going in for the Montyon prize——”
He broke off, rang the bell, and the youth before mentioned suddenly appeared.
“Tell the cashier to send me up a thousand-franc note.—Sit down, madame.”
“Ah! poor woman, look, she is crying!” exclaimed Heloise. “How stupid! There, there, mother, we will go to see him; don’t cry.—I say, now,” she continued, taking the manager into a corner, “you want to make me take the leading part in the ballet in Ariane, you Turk. You are going to be married, and you know how I can make you miserable—”
“Heloise, my heart is copper-bottomed like a man-of-war.”
“I shall bring your children on the scene! I will borrow some somewhere.”
“I have owned up about the attachment.”
“Do be nice, and give Pons’ post to Garangeot; he has talent, poor fellow, and he has not a penny; and I promise peace.”
“But wait till Pons is dead, in case the good man may come back again.”
“Oh, as to that, no, sir,” said La Cibot. “He began to wander in his mind last night, and now he is delirious. It will soon be over, unfortunately.”