“That is true, monsieur, but all the difference is that your father’s friends paid back what they borrowed.”
This conversation was interrupted by Poterne’s arrival; he still wore his shabby box-coat, beneath which he carried something of considerable size, which he kept carefully out of sight. Jasmin made a very significant grimace at the appearance of the very person of whom he had been speaking. But Monsieur Poterne came forward with a most humble air, bowing to the ground, and trying to assume a pleasant expression.
“Ah! it’s Monsieur Poterne!” said Chérubin, laughing at his old servant’s pantomime. “I was just talking about you with Jasmin, who declares that my Spanish cat is turning white.”
Monsieur Poterne replied, with a sneering laugh that sounded like the rattling of copper sous in a saucepan:
“Monsieur Jasmin is joking! The cat that I had the honor to sell you is very valuable; he used to belong to a Spanish grandee. It is possible that he may turn white temporarily; he may not be well; but the color will all come back if you take good care of him.”
“Do you mean that you think that animals aren’t well fed in our house?” demanded Jasmin haughtily.
“I didn’t mean that, my dear monsieur; but Spanish cats are very delicate, and——”
“All right,” said Chérubin, “we have talked enough about a cat. Doubtless you have come to offer me something new, Monsieur Poterne? for you are an invaluable man! With you one has no time to form a wish.”
“Monsieur le marquis is too kind; as it happens, I have something.”
As he spoke, Monsieur Poterne bestowed a savage glance on the old valet, whose presence embarrassed him; but Jasmin did not budge, and as his master did not tell him to go, Monsieur Poterne was fain to make up his mind to exhibit before him what he had under his coat.