“If I should rage and tear my hair, that would not give me back my money.”
“Philosophy is a fine thing, that is sure,” said the marquis. “It helps us to take things as they come, it makes us superior to adversity, and—But it occurs to me that I am invited out to dinner, to eat a truffled turkey. I promised to be on hand at the overture, and a man of honor has only his word. Au revoir, my dear friends.”
The marquis rose and was about to leave the room, when Dalville ran after him and stopped him.
“I beg your pardon, my dear Monsieur de Cligneval,” he said under his breath, “but you probably have forgotten a little debt of a hundred louis. If I venture to remind you of it, you will understand that just at this time I am in need of whatever I possess.”
“My dear friend, what do you say? Pardieu! it had slipped my mind entirely.”
“You were to repay it that same week, and as it was two months ago, I thought you had forgotten that trifle.”
“Entirely, my dear friend, entirely; I have no memory except for important things, and a hundred louis, you will agree, is the merest bagatelle. Send to my house.”
“They could not give me your address at your former residence.”
“True, I am on the wing. I will send the money to you—that will be the better way. But they are waiting for me; the turkey is probably served. It’s a party of gentlemen only, and I promised to be prompt. I am very particular about keeping my word.”
“I can rely, then, upon——”