“Do you know, sir, the probable proceeds of my offer?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, make an estimate.”
“It is impossible.”
“Then, approximate.”
“I must decline; for I understand nothing of such calculations.”
“Well, then, I understand them, and am rarely mistaken,” said the agent, stroking his chin, “and I tell you it is an affair to you” (here my seducer stopped, as if to make a most accurate calculation)—“an affair of one hundred thousand francs.”
“One hundred thousand francs!” I exclaimed, dazzled at such a prospect, “you cannot mean it.”
“It is precisely because I mean it that I tell you, and repeat it again: you will clear one hundred thousand francs by your trip. Add to this, the advantage of having seen a splendid country, and being received with all the attention due to an artist of your merit. You will then return to your impatient spectators, whose curiosity, heightened by their long privation, will produce you receipts far more brilliant than any you might have expected by remaining in Paris.”
Being little conversant at that period with theatrical matters, and having no reason to doubt the honesty of my eloquent “humbugger,” I easily believed his fine promises. The chink of one hundred thousand francs still ringing in my ears fascinated me; and I gave way unconsciously to the same mode of reasoning the inkstand inventor had employed.