"Ah, these two letters! I will not part with them for a trifle; the second especially. It is only twelve lines in length; but what pretty English handwriting! Only see! and the style is loving and tender. I will add that it is signed. Ah, monsieur, Mademoiselle Moriaz will be charmed to see these scrawls again. Under what obligations will she be to you! You will make the most of it; you will tell her that you wrested them from me, your dagger at my throat—that you terrified me. With what a gracious smile she will reward your heroism! According to my opinion that smile is as well worth ten thousand francs as the medallion—the two gems are of equal value."
"If you want more, it makes no difference."
"No, monsieur; I have told you I have only one price."
"At this rate, it is twenty-five thousand francs that I owe you. You have nothing more to sell me?"
"Alas! that is all."
"Will you swear it?"
"What, monsieur! you admit then that Samuel Brohl has a word of honor—that when he has sworn he can be believed?"
"You are right; I am still very young."
"That is all, then, I swear to you," affirmed Samuel, sighing. "My shop is poorly stocked; I had commenced laying in a supply, but an unfortunate accident deranged my little business."
"Bah! be consoled," replied M. Langis; "you will find another opportunity: a genius of such lofty flights as yours is never at a loss. You have been unfortunate; some day Fortune will compensate you for the wrongs she has done you, and the world will accord justice to your fine talents."