“If you prefer it, madame, the conference can be held here. I will leave David with you. The Cointets will come this evening, and you shall see if I can defend your interests.”
“Ah! monsieur, I should be very glad,” said Eve.
“Very well,” said Petit-Claud; “this evening, at seven o’clock.”
“Thank you,” said Eve; and from her tone and glance Petit-Claud knew that he had made great progress in his fair client’s confidence.
“You have nothing to fear; you see I was right,” he added. “Your brother is a hundred miles away from suicide, and when all comes to all, perhaps you will have a little fortune this evening. A bona-fide purchaser for the business has turned up.”
“If that is the case,” said Eve, “why should we not wait awhile before binding ourselves to the Cointets?”
Petit-Claud saw the danger. “You are forgetting, madame,” he said, “that you cannot sell your business until you have paid M. Métivier; for a distress warrant has been issued.”
As soon as Petit-Claud reached home he sent for Cérizet, and when the printer’s foreman appeared, drew him into the embrasure of the window.
“To-morrow evening,” he said, “you will be the proprietor of the Séchards’ printing-office, and then there are those behind you who have influence enough to transfer the license;” (then in a lowered voice), “but you have no mind to end in the hulks, I suppose?”
“The hulks! What’s that? What’s that?”