“M. Petit-Jean,” said Boyer, introducing a man of a mean, sordid, and crafty look.
“Where is the bill?” inquired the comte.
“Here it is, sir,” said Petit-Jean (Jacques Ferrand the notary’s man of straw), handing the bill to the comte.
“Is this it?” said the latter, showing the bill to his son.
“Yes, father.”
The comte took from his waistcoat pocket twenty-five notes of a thousand francs each, handed them to his son, and said:
“Pay!”
Florestan paid, and took the bill with a deep sigh of the utmost satisfaction. M. Petit-Jean put the notes carefully in an old pocket-book, made his bow, and retired. M. de Saint-Remy left the salon with him, whilst Florestan was very carefully tearing up the bill.
“At least Clotilde’s twenty-five thousand francs are still in my pocket, and if nothing i
