“But he is not my millionaire: he is your millionaire only. I know well that he is as poor as we are.”
The musician’s imaginary melody ceased: one could almost hear it cease. He gazed at Seraphin as he might have gazed at a madman.
“But that room rents for a hundred francs a month!”
“He is in debt for it.”
“And his name is that of a rich American well known.”
“An uncle who does not like him.”
“And he has offered to provide this collation.”
Seraphin shrugged.
“M. Cartaret’s credit,” said he, with a glance at Madame, “seems to be better than mine. I tell you he is only a young art-student, enough genteel, and the relation of a man enough rich, but for himself—poof!—he is one of us.”