With a hang-dog air and bowed head, Marescal walked up and down the room. Then he stopped before Ralph and said in the same low voice: [[247]]
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“What do you want for the letters?”
“Thirty shekels, like Judas.”
“Stop your fooling! How much?”
“Thirty millions.”
Marescal trembled with impatience and rage.
Ralph laughed and said: “You’ll make yourself ill, Rudolph. I’m a good fellow, and I like you—you’re so sympathetic. I’m not asking a cent for your comico-amorous literature. I value it too highly. There’s months and months’ amusement in it. But I demand——”
“What?”