"Sir, sir!" cried the banker, leaping to his feet, "I hope this is only a jest on your part!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the young dandy. "I am not thinking of murder or poison. I am only thinking that the poor old fellow's health may be shattered by peasant-girls and fat pasties. There are, I must tell you, pasties so jolly heavy that they call them 'inheritance pasties.' There's no poison in them, but lots of goose-livers and other delicacies. Eat your fill of 'em, and throw in some good red wine, and apoplexy will be waiting for you round the corner."
"I can't say: I never made such things," said the ex-pastry-cook, gravely.
"Nor did I mean to say that I would have them made for my uncle. I am capable of killing, I am capable of shooting or cutting down the man I hate; but it is not in me to kill a man in order to inherit his property. But so much I may say, that if only I chose to take the trouble, I could accelerate his departure from the world a little."
"That would be a shame. Wait till he departs of his own accord."
"There's nothing else to do. Meanwhile you must make up your mind to be my banker. The more money I borrow, the better it will be for you; for you will get back as much again. What do I care? Whoever comes after me will have to shut the door."
"Then we are agreed?"
"To-morrow morning, after twelve, you can send your notary to me with all the documents ready, so that no time may be lost."
"I will not keep you waiting."