“Where is the money?”
The Spaniard made no answer, and Lucien said within himself, “There I had him; he was laughing at me.”
In another moment they took their places. Neither of them said a word. Silently the Abbé groped in the pocket of the coach, and drew out a traveler’s leather pouch with three divisions in it; thence he took a hundred Portuguese moidores, bringing out his large hand filled with gold three times.
“Father, I am yours,” said Lucien, dazzled by the stream of gold.
“Child!” said the priest, and set a tender kiss on Lucien’s forehead. “There is twice as much still left in the bag, besides the money for traveling expenses.”
“And you are traveling alone!” cried Lucien.
“What is that?” asked the Spaniard. “I have more than a hundred thousand crowns in drafts on Paris. A diplomatist without money is in your position of this morning—a poet without a will of his own!”
As Lucien took his place in the calèche beside the so-called Spanish diplomatist, Eve rose to give her child a draught of milk, found the fatal letter in the cradle, and read it. A sudden cold chilled the damps of morning slumber, dizziness came over her, she could not see. She called aloud to Marion and Kolb.
“Has my brother gone out?” she asked, and Kolb answered at once with, “Yes, Montame, pefore tay.”
“Keep this that I am going to tell you a profound secret,” said Eve. “My brother has gone no doubt to make away with himself. Hurry, both of you, make inquiries cautiously, and look along the river.”