"Ask monsieur le comte for money, when it isn't three weeks since we left Paris! What will he think?" murmured Ménard, with a sigh.—"What if monsieur le baron should write to his steward at Rava or Krapach?"
"Why, I would write in a moment, but it's so far!—It would take at least two months to get an answer, because at this time of year the mails are greatly delayed by avalanches."
"What, monsieur le baron, in summer?"
"Summer is the season when the snow melts. Pardieu! if it was winter, they could make half the distance on snow-shoes. We couldn't wait all that time in this inn; we must have money at once."
"My dear Ménard," said Frédéric, "you really must apply to my father."
"Well, I will write him what has happened to monsieur le baron——"
"No, no; you are the one he gave the money to, and you are the one who was robbed; it's useless to mention me. Just imagine that you were the one who was robbed last night."
"Come, my dear Ménard, write my father a most pathetic letter."
"The deuce! that's a very hard task."
"I'll dictate to you, if you choose," said Dubourg.