merely has a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, no one will accuse me of marrying for money on the strength of my name. On the contrary, it will seem to be a love-match, and people will suppose that I have grown young again.” He paused, incensed by M. Fortunat’s lack of enthusiasm. “Judging from your long face, Master Twenty-per-cent, one would fancy you doubted my success,” he said.
“It is always best to doubt,” replied his adviser, philosophically.
The marquis shrugged his shoulders. “Even when one has triumphed over all obstacles?” he asked sneeringly.
“Yes.”
“Then, tell me, if you please, what prevents this marriage from being a foregone conclusion?”
“Mademoiselle Marguerite’s consent, Monsieur le Marquis.”
It was as if a glass of ice-water had been thrown in M. de Valorsay’s face. He started, turned as pale as death, and then exclaimed: “I shall have that; I am sure of it.”
You could not say that M. Fortunat was angry. Such a man, as cold and as smooth as a hundred franc piece, has no useless passions. But he was intensely irritated to hear his client foolishly chanting the paeons of victory, while he was compelled to conceal his grief at the loss of his forty thousand francs, deep in the recesses of his heart. So, far from being touched by the marquis’s evident alarm, it pleased him to be able to turn the dagger in the wound he had just inflicted. “You must excuse my incredulity,” said he. “It comes entirely from something you, yourself, told me about a week ago.”
“What did I tell you?”
“That you suspected Mademoiselle Marguerite of a—how shall I express it?—of a secret preference for some other person.”
The gloomiest despondency had now followed the marquis’s enthusiasm and exultation. He was evidently in torture. “I more than suspected it,” said he.
“Ah!”
“I was certain of it, thanks to the count’s house-keeper, Madame Leon, a miserable old woman whom I have hired to look after my
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