Petit-Claud looked at Lucien, and his gimlet face was a point of interrogation.
“I intend to rescue Séchard,” Lucien said, with a certain importance. “I brought his misfortunes upon him; I mean to make full reparation. . . . I have more influence over Louise——”
“Who is Louise?”
“The Comtesse du Châtelet!”
Petit-Claud started.
“I have more influence over her than she herself suspects,” said Lucien; “only, my dear fellow, if I can do something with your authorities here, I have no decent clothes.”—Petit-Claud made as though he would offer his purse.
“Thank you,” said Lucien, grasping Petit-Claud’s hand. “In ten days’ time I will pay a visit to the Countess and return your call.”
The shook hands like old comrades, and separated.
“He ought to be a poet,” said Petit-Claud to himself; “he is quite mad.”
“There are no friends like one’s school friends; it is a true saying,” Lucien thought at he went to find his sister.