This seemed to fail in convincing him. "Your father," he remarked, "used to pay his notes when they fell due."
I betrayed my ignorance, after all. "Doesn't everybody do the same?" I asked.
He burst out laughing. "We will send the maid to get a bit of stamped paper," he said; "I'll write the message for her, this time."
Those last words alluded to Fanny's ignorance of the French language, which made it necessary to provide her with written instructions, when she was sent on an errand. In our domestic affairs, I was able to do this; but, in the present case, I only handed the message to her. When she returned with a slip of stamped paper, Harry called to me to come to the writing-table.
"Now, my sweet," he said, "see how easily money is to be got with a scratch of the pen."
I looked, over his shoulder. In less than a minute it was done; and he had produced ten thousand francs on paper—in English money (as he told me), four hundred pounds. This seemed to be a large loan; I asked how he proposed to pay it back. He kindly reminded me that he was a newspaper proprietor, and, as such, possessed of the means of inspiring confidence in persons with money to spare. They could afford, it seems, to give him three months in which to arrange for repayment. In that time, as he thought, the profits of the new journal might come pouring in. He knew best, of course.
We took the next train to Paris, and turned our bit of paper into notes and gold. Never was there such a delightful companion as my husband, when he has got money in his pocket. After so much sorrow and anxiety, for weeks past, that memorable afternoon was like a glimpse of Paradise.
On the next morning, there was an end to my short-lived enjoyment of no more than the latter half of a day.
Watching her opportunity, Fanny Mere came to me while I was alone, carrying a thick letter in her hand. She held it before me with the address uppermost.
"Please to look at that," she said.