The baron turned full upon him, and leaned his shoulders against the iron door of the recess. He had taken from his pocket a bunch of heavy keys, which he dangled from his clenched fingers, and they made a faint jingle in the silence that followed, for a few seconds.
“Permit me to ask,” said the baron, “are your inquiries directed to a legal object?”
“I have no difficulty in saying yes,” answered he; “a legal object, strictly.”
“A legal object, by which you gain considerably?” he asked slowly.
“By which I gain the satisfaction of seeing justice done upon a villain.”
“That is fine, Monsieur. Eternal justice! I have thought and said that very often: Vive la justice eternelle! especially when her sword shears off the head of my enemy, and her scale is laden with napoleons for my purse.”
“Monsieur le Baron mistakes, in my case; I have absolutely nothing to gain by the procedure I propose; it is strictly criminal,” said David Arden drily.
“Not an estate? not a slice of an estate? Come, come! Thorheit! That is foolish talk.”
“I have told you already, nothing,” repeated David Arden.
“Then you don't care, in truth, a single napoleon, whether you win or lose. We have been wasting our time, Sir. I have no time to bestow for nothing; my minutes count by the crown, while I remain in Paris. I shall soon depart, and practise no more; and my time will become my own—still my own, by no means yours. I am candid, Sir, and I think you cannot misunderstand me; I must be paid for my time and opportunities.”