“Still, I do not see what I can do, supposing that I did agree to identify him for two thousand francs.”
“Nothing simpler,” said the stranger. “I will send you a little bottle containing a dose that will send a rush of blood to the head; it will do him no harm whatever, but he will fall down as if he were in a fit. The drug can be put into wine or coffee; either will do equally well. You carry your man to bed at once, and undress him to see that he is not dying. As soon as you are alone, you give him a slap on the shoulder, and presto! the letters will appear.”
“Why, that is just nothing at all,” said Poiret.
“Well, do you agree?” said Gondureau, addressing the old maid.
“But, my dear sir, suppose there are no letters at all,” said Mlle. Michonneau; “am I to have the two thousand francs all the same?”
“No.”
“What will you give me then?”
“Five hundred francs.”
“It is such a thing to do for so little! It lies on your conscience just the same, and I must quiet my conscience, sir.”
“I assure you,” said Poiret, “that mademoiselle has a great deal of conscience, and not only so, she is a very amiable person, and very intelligent.”