“A little sum will not do, Marigny,” said the first speaker. “I know half-a-dozen myself who intend bidding for her—rich dogs all of them.”
“Who?” inquired Marigny, suddenly awaking from his languid indifference, “Who, may I inquire?”
“Who? Well there’s Gardette the dentist, who’s half crazed about her; there’s the old Marquis; there’s planter Tillareau and Lebon, of Lafourche; and young Moreau, the wine-merchant of the Rue Dauphin; and who knows but half-a-dozen of those rich Yankee cotton-growers may want her for a housekeeper! Ha! ha! ha!”
“I can name another,” suggested a third speaker.
“Name!” demanded several; “yourself, perhaps, Le Ber; you want a sempstress for your shirt-buttons.”
“No, not myself,” replied the speaker; “I don’t buy coturiers at that price—deux mille dollares, at the least, my friends. Pardieu! no. I find my sempstresses at a cheaper rate in the Faubourg Tremé.”
“Who, then? Name him!”
“Without hesitation I do,—the old wizen-face Gayarre.”
“Gayarre the avocat?”
“Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!”