As he spoke, Daréna rushed into the young marquis’s bedroom, leaving Jasmin propped against the wall, muttering in a voice that trembled with wrath:
“Old donkey! he called me an old donkey! He’s an impertinent knave. The Grandvilains, father or son, never called me that. He’s not a donkey, but I have an idea that he’s a much more dangerous animal!”
Daréna reached Chérubin’s bedside and pulled the curtains aside, crying:
“Up, Joconde! up, Lovelace, Richelieu, Rochester! The moment of triumph has arrived at last!—Sapristi! I can fairly say, my dear fellow, that I have made myself ill for you! Ouf! I can do no more!”
And Daréna threw himself on a couch, and mopped his face with his handkerchief.
“But what has become of you during these eight long days that I have not once seen you, and have not known what to think of your silence?” asked Chérubin, looking closely at his friend. “I thought that you had forgotten me.”
“Ah! that is just like a man—a young man! Because things are not done on the instant, you think that you are forgotten. Do I ever forget my friends? Am I not absolutely devoted to you? If you have not heard from me for a week, it is because I had nothing to tell you; but I have been on the lookout, watching and waiting for the moment to act. It has come at last; I have acted, and the fair Globeska is in our power.”
“Is it possible? Oh! do tell me how you did it, my dear Daréna?”
“Parbleu! by my ordinary method: I scattered money about. I know no other way, especially as it always succeeds. Dress, and meanwhile I will tell you how it all came about; but don’t call your valet; you will understand that I can’t talk about it before a witness. I have already compromised myself enough—but damn the odds!”
Chérubin rose and began to dress, saying: