As soon as these bold spirits surrounded the capitalist’s breakfast-table, Cardot appeared. He had left the rest to make a night of it after the dinner, and finished the evening after his own fashion in the retirement of domestic life. Just now a sweet smile wandered over his features. He seemed to have a presentiment that there would be some inheritance to sample and divide, involving inventories and engrossing; an inheritance rich in fees and deeds to draw up, and something as juicy as the trembling fillet of beef in which their host had just plunged his knife.
“Oh, ho! we are to have breakfast in the presence of a notary,” cried Cursy.
“You have come here just at the right time,” said the banker, indicating the breakfast; “you can jot down the numbers, and initial off all the dishes.”
“There is no will to make here, but contracts of marriage there may be, perhaps,” said the scholar, who had made a satisfactory arrangement for the first time in twelve months.
“Oh! Oh!”
“Ah! Ah!”
“One moment,” cried Cardot, fairly deafened by a chorus of wretched jokes. “I came here on serious business. I am bringing six millions for one of you.” (Dead silence.) “Monsieur,” he went on, turning to Raphael, who at the moment was unceremoniously wiping his eyes on a corner of the table-napkin, “was not your mother a Mlle. O’Flaharty?”
“Yes,” said Raphael mechanically enough; “Barbara Marie.”
“Have you your certificate of birth about you,” Cardot went on, “and Mme. de Valentin’s as well?”
“I believe so.”