“Fifty louis, Monsieur Bertrand.”
“Fifty louis! he had that much in his purse yesterday when he started for that ball! What in the devil do they do at these swell parties, to get rid of so much money in one evening? It seems that he’s no luckier at these Thomassinets—Thomassinières’—than he is anywhere else!”
“Oh! it was very fine, Monsieur Bertrand!”
“Ah! so you saw it, did you?”
“Yes, I went up to the servants’ quarters. They gave me ices and punch and cakes.”
“Oho! I can understand that you liked that! But do you know that with the twelve hundred francs that monsieur lost at cards, we could have had some famous cakes here?—Here, my boy, here’s the yellow boys; look out not to lose them.”
“Oh! don’t be afraid, Monsieur Bertrand, the cabriolet’s waiting for me at the door.”
“And don’t drive Bébelle too fast, d’ye hear?”
The little groom had already gone. Bertrand was still standing in front of the strong-box, which was open. He counted the remaining contents, and frowned; he seemed terrified by the rapidity with which Dalville was spending his money. He closed the desk at last, with a shake of the head, saying: “It’s his; he has the right to dispose of it.” And to dispel his melancholy thoughts, Bertrand went down to the cellar and brought up a bottle of old burgundy, because, being entrusted with the duty of watching the wine, he wished to be sure that it did not run away.