“Honor!” poor Eve broke in. “Oh, but Lucien has fallen in so many ways! Writing against his conscience! Attacking his best friend! Living upon an actress! Showing himself in public with her. Bringing us to lie on straw——”
“Oh, that is nothing——!” cried David, and suddenly stopped short. The secret of Lucien’s forgery had nearly escaped him, and, unluckily, his start left a vague, uneasy impression on Eve.
“What do you mean by nothing?” she answered. “And where shall we find the money to meet bills for three thousand francs?”
“We shall be obliged to renew the lease with Cérizet, to begin with,” said David. “The Cointets have been allowing him fifteen per cent on the work done for them, and in that way alone he has made six hundred francs, besides contriving to make five hundred francs by job printing.”
“If the Cointets know that, perhaps they will not renew the lease. They will be afraid of him, for Cérizet is a dangerous man.”
“Eh! what is that to me!” cried David, “we shall be rich in a very little while. When Lucien is rich, dear angel, he will have nothing but good qualities.”
“Oh! David, my dear, my dear; what is this that you have said unthinkingly? Then Lucien fallen into the clutches of poverty would not have the force of character to resist evil? And you think just as M. d’Arthez thinks! No one is great unless he has strength of character, and Lucien is weak. An angel who must not be tempted—what is that?”
“What but a nature that is noble only in its own region, its own sphere, its heaven? I will spare him the struggle; Lucien is not meant for it. Look here! I am so near the end now that I can talk to you about the means.”
He drew several sheets of white paper from his pocket, brandished them in triumph, and laid them on his wife’s lap.
“A ream of this paper, royal size, would cost five francs at the most,” he added, while Eve handled the specimens with almost childish surprise.