"Ah, M. Maxime," she exclaimed, in tears, "you don't know how you hurt my feelings. Well, you can pay me for the dinner; you shall if you like; you can give me the money as soon as you get some ... but if you gave me a hundred thousand francs, it wouldn't make me so happy as seeing you eat my poor dinner. You would do me a great kindness, M. Maxime. You, who are so clever, you ought to understand how I feel. Oh, I know you will, M. Maxime!"
"Well, my dear Louison, what am I to do? I can't give you a hundred thousand francs ... but ... I am going to eat your dinner. All by myself, too, if you don't mind."
"Certainly, sir. Oh, thank you, sir; I thank you very much indeed. You have a kind heart, sir."
"And a good appetite, Louison. Give me your hand—oh, not to put money in, you may be sure. There! Au revoir, Louison."
The good woman went out sobbing.
I did justice to Louison's dinner, and had just finished writing these lines when a grave and heavy footstep sounded on the stairs, and at the same time I thought I heard the voice of my humble providence whispering confidences in hurried, nervous tones. A moment or two later there was a knock. Louison slipped away in the darkness, and the solemn outline of the old notary appeared in the doorway.
M. Laubépin cast a keen glance at the tray where I had left the fragments of my dinner. Then coming towards me and opening his arms, at once confused and reproachful, he said:
"In Heaven's name, marquis, why did you not——"
He broke off, strode quickly about the room, and then coming to a sudden halt, exclaimed:
"Young man, you had no right to do this; you have given pain to a friend, and you have made an old man blush."