“You don’t know me!” cried Auguste angrily, standing in front of the marquis, who was about to walk away. His tone and the flash in his eyes evidently refreshed Monsieur de Cligneval’s memory, for he replied, trying to smile:
“Oh! I beg pardon! a thousand pardons! It’s Monsieur Dalville. I was so engrossed—I am going out to dinner—I am late, and——”
“Monsieur, you have owed me money for a long, long time, which you borrowed for a few days only.”
“I, owe you money? Oh! you are mistaken, I assure you.”
“What, monsieur?”
“I beg pardon—I paid you! I give you my word that I paid you, a long time ago; that’s why you have forgotten it.”
“You dare to assert——”
“My dear sir, you confuse my debt with somebody else’s; really I paid you. Think carefully and you will remember. When you lend to a number of people, you get them mixed and forget; it’s like boston—there are people who always ask you twice for the trick.—Adieu! au revoir! I am going out to dine.”
Monsieur de Cligneval was already far away. Auguste stood still, petrified by his debtor’s impudence; but what is one to do with a man who denies a debt, when one has no evidence thereof? To thrash him would be some compensation at least, but the law would put you in the wrong.
Auguste went home more depressed and dejected than ever, and, to cap the climax of his misfortunes, fatigue and anxiety had inflamed his blood. He was consumed by fever; he was alone, on a bag of straw, and ere long it would be impossible for him to obtain those things which were essential for his restoration to health.