“This is all that I have,” answered the lawyer, and he held out a note on Mme. Séchard’s writing-paper.
“Very well,” said Cérizet, “let Doublon be in wait at the Palet Gate about ten minutes before sunset; tell him to post his gendarmes, and you shall have our man.”
“Are you sure of your part of the business?” asked Petit-Claud, scanning Cérizet.
“I rely on chance,” said the ex-street boy, “and she is a saucy huzzy; she does not like honest folk.
“You must succeed,” said Cérizet. “You have pushed me into this dirty business; you may as well let me have a few banknotes to wipe off the stains.”—Then detecting a look that he did not like in the attorney’s face, he continued, with a deadly glance, “If you have cheated me, sir, if you don’t buy the printing-office for me within a week—you will leave a young widow;” he lowered his voice.
“If we have David on the jail register at six o’clock, come round to M. Gannerac’s at nine, and we will settle your business,” said Petit-Claud peremptorily.
“Agreed. Your will shall be done, governor,” said Cérizet.
Cérizet understood the art of washing paper, a dangerous art for the Treasury. He washed out Lucien’s four lines and replaced them, imitating the handwriting with a dexterity which augured ill for his own future:—
“MY DEAR DAVID,—Your business is settled; you need not fear to go
to the prefect. You can go out at sunset. I will come to meet you
and tell you what to do at the prefecture.—Your brother,
“LUCIEN.”
At noon Lucien wrote to David, telling him of his evening’s success. The prefect would be sure to lend his influence, he said; he was full of enthusiasm over the invention, and was drawing up a report that very day to send to the Government. Marion carried the letter to Basine, taking some of Lucien’s linen to the laundry as a pretext for the errand.