"Holy Mary, save me!"
"About that please the ladies, father," Germain put in; "but there is another matter. Who drew your marriage contract?"
"D'Aguilhe, the notary," his mother returned.
"Is he of St. Elphège?"
"Yes."
"He has, of course, omitted mention of your nobility."
"He knew of none," said the merchant.
"Then we must go to him with our titles, and he must rectify it to-morrow."
"As you please, if it will suit you better," the merchant murmured.
"I must be a Prince, for I create nobles," pronounced Germain, shaking with fevered laughter, as he drew the sheets over him in the state bed that night. His merriment was a pitiful cover for his desperation. In his favour it is well to remember the dictum of Schopenhauer: that the English are the only nation who thoroughly realise the immorality of lying; and we must also keep in mind that the extent of his disorder was a measure of the power of that passion which was its cause. Better things were yet in him.