“Sans doute, the same as in affairs of honor,” said the bad copy of a worse original.
“I told him that, since his necessity was so extreme, I would venture to lend him—not money, for I had none—but something that would be of more use to him in his circumstances. The imbecile thought, perhaps, that it was going to be my signature.”
“Your signature! What one might call the only and unique sanctum sanctorum of the disciples of Mercury. A thing so sacred!”
“My dear Boni,” said his friend, “veuillez ne pas m’interrompre?[60] The fellow’s countenance lighted up. I believe, upon my word, that he had not eaten in three days. Laughing
within myself, although my face denoted the gravest sympathy for his situation, I led him to a closet, took out a case of pistols, which I opened, and, handing him a weapon, said, as I bowed his dismissal, ‘Here is a remedy for all your troubles.’ My mendicant turned upon his heel and left; and you may be sure that I have rid myself of him, une bonne fois pour toutes.”[61]
Boni’s mirth was overpowering.
Gallardo and the rest of the Spaniards were silent.
“You must positively put this joke into some paper,” said the capitalist’s admirer, between his paroxysms of laughter.
“Mon cher, à quoi bon?”[62] responded the hero of the anecdote, with an air of modesty.
“To show people how to get rid of impostors,” answered Boni; “to furnish a specimen of your humor—to let it be seen that you are as richly endowed by nature as by fortune—to give circulation to an entertaining item—and to—”