“Pay my debts!”
“Send an apoplexy to my uncle, the old stick!”
“Ten thousand a year in the funds, and I’ll cry quits with you, Raphael!”
“Deeds of gift and no mistake,” was the notary’s comment.
“He ought, at least, to rid me of the gout!”
“Lower the funds!” shouted the banker.
These phrases flew about like the last discharge of rockets at the end of a display of fireworks; and were uttered, perhaps, more in earnest than in jest.
“My good friend,” Emile said solemnly, “I shall be quite satisfied with an income of two hundred thousand livres. Please to set about it at once.”
“Do you not know the cost, Emile?” asked Raphael.
“A nice excuse!” the poet cried; “ought we not to sacrifice ourselves for our friends?”