"Then that makes two hundred; that is to say, that there is, in that roll, two thousand livres tournois in gold."
"Two thousand livres!"
"Well, what's the matter with you now?"
"Marcel, give me a little vinegar, I beg of you. I don't feel very well."
"It seems to me that a present like that should make you feel very well. Wait, drink a drop of brandy, that will put you in good shape."
Chaudoreille, a little restored by the liquor, opened the roll, and the sight of the pieces of gold which it held deprived him for some moments of the faculty of speech. Finally, he murmured, in a voice faint with emotion,—
"Marcel, all this belongs to me."
"I know it, all right."
"And then, there's this purse still; and these six crowns which I had left—"
"Yes, from the game of piquet, yesterday."