“We sha’n’t run any risk?”
“None, whatever.”
“Agreed, then,” said the widow Cardinal, holding out her hand to her future son-in-law. “Six thousand francs a year; hey! what a fine life I’ll have.”
“With a son-in-law like me!” added Cerizet.
“I shall be a bourgeoisie of Paris!”
“Now,” resumed Cerizet, after a pause, “I must study the ground. Don’t leave your uncle alone a minute; tell the Perraches that you expect a doctor. I’ll be the doctor, and when I get there you must seem not to know me.”
“Aren’t you sly, you old rogue,” said Madame Cardinal, with a punch on Cerizet’s stomach by way of farewell.
An hour later, Cerizet, dressed in black, disguised by a rusty wig and an artificially painted physiognomy, arrived at the house in the rue Honore-Chevalier in the regulation cabriolet. He asked the porter to tell him how to find the lodging of an old beggar named Toupillier.
“Is monsieur the doctor whom Madame Cardinal expects?” asked Perrache.
Cerizet had no doubt reflected on the gravity of the affair he was undertaking, for he avoided giving an answer to that question.