“I must go to the prime minister, to return him this draught of a commercial treaty, which I cannot accept.”
“And I must go to the rendezvous given me in this letter.”
“The Baroness’s writing!”
“Yes, Baron. Your wife has done me the honour to write to me. We set out together to-night; the Baroness is waiting for me in a post-chaise.”
“And it is to me you dare acknowledge this abominable project?”
“I am less generous than you think. You cannot but be aware that, owing to an irregularity in your marriage-contract, nothing would be easier than to get it annulled. This we will have done; we then obtain a divorce, and I marry the Baroness. You will, of course, have to hand me over her dowry—a million of florins—composing, if I do not mistake, your entire fortune.”
The Baron, more dead than alive, sank into an arm-chair. He was struck speechless.
“We might, perhaps, make some arrangement, Baron,” continued Florival. “I am not particularly bent upon becoming your wife’s second husband.”
“Ah, sir!” cried the ambassador, “you restore me to life!”
“Yes, but I will not restore you the Baroness, except on certain conditions.”