“I am,” he said, “a clerk with M. Drayton, the jeweler in the Rue
de la Paix; and I come to ask you one of those little favors which
tradespeople owe to each other.”
A frown appeared on the fat man’s countenance. He thought, perhaps,
that M. Drayton’s clerks were rather too stylish-looking; or else,
perhaps, he felt apprehensive of one of those numerous petty swindles
of which shopkeepers are constantly the victims.
“What is it?” said he. “Speak!”
“I am on my way,” spoke M. de Tregars, “to deliver a ring which a
lady purchased of us yesterday. She is not a regular customer, and
has given us no references. If she doesn’t pay, shall I leave the
ring? My employer told me, ‘Consult some prominent tradesman of the
neighborhood, and follow his advice.’”
Prominent tradesman! Delicately tickled vanity was dancing in the
grocer’s eyes.
“What is the name of the lady?” he inquired.
“Mme. Zelie Cadelle.”
The grocer burst out laughing.
“In that case, my boy,” he said, tapping familiarly the shoulder
of the so-called clerk, “whether she pays or not, you can deliver
the article.”
The familiarity was not, perhaps, very much to the taste of the
Marquis de Tregars. No matter.
“She is rich, then, that lady?” he said.
“Personally no. But she is protected by an old fool, who allows
her all her fancies.”
“Indeed!”
“It is scandalous; and you cannot form an idea of the amount of
money that is spent in that house. Horses, carriages, servants,
dresses, balls, dinners, card-playing all night, a perpetual
carnival: it must be ruinous!”