“Good! then you will make them for thirty thousand francs each.—Come! write and sign—per Dio!”
Chérubin seated himself at the table; he took the pen in his trembling hand and cast a sorrowful glance at his conquest, who had thrown herself on the couch, where he believed that she had swooned, whereas she was simply trying to go to sleep again. But Poterne returned to his side, ground his teeth and swore blood-curdling oaths. The young lover at once began to write; he had already filled out the body of one note, and was about to sign it, when they heard a loud noise below; then steps rapidly ascended the stairs, the door was thrown open, and Monfréville appeared, followed by old Jasmin, who uttered a cry of joy at sight of his master.
“Ah! here he is!” he cried; “God be praised! they have not destroyed him!”
Chérubin felt as if he were born again when he saw his friend; he threw himself into his arms, while Monfréville, observing his confusion and bewilderment and pallor, asked him:
“Great God! my dear fellow, what are you doing here, in this house—this den of thieves, to which a little rascal refused to admit me?”
“Ah! my friend, the fact is that—that I have been very guilty!” Chérubin replied in a voice broken by sobs. “I abducted madame—this gentleman’s wife; that is to say, it wasn’t I who did it—Daréna abducted her for me. Monsieur is a Polish count, and he insisted that I should give him my notes for a hundred and twenty thousand francs, or else he would kill his wife! Ah! how glad I am to see you!”
While Chérubin was speaking, Poterne, who was very ill at ease, tried to sidle toward the door; but Jasmin had stationed himself in front of it, after taking pains to lock it.
As he listened to his young friend, Monfréville looked about the room in keen scrutiny. He examined Mademoiselle Chichette and the supposititious outraged husband, who acted as if he wished to crawl under the table. Chérubin had no sooner finished speaking than Monfréville ran up to Poterne, snatched off his hat and spectacles, and raised his cane threateningly.
“This creature a Polish count!” he exclaimed; “why, it’s that vile Poterne, the agent of that contemptible knave Daréna! They plotted together this infamous scheme to extort money from you!—Ah! I am strongly tempted to break my cane over this cur’s shoulders!”
“Poterne!” cried Chérubin; “is it possible? Poterne!”