How was it that a clever man like M. Fortunat made such a blunder as
to choose a Sunday, and a racing Sunday too, to call on M. Wilkie. His
anxiety might explain the mistake, but it did not justify it. He felt
certain, that under any other circumstances he would not have been
dismissed so cavalierly. He would at least have been allowed to develop
his proposals, and then who knows what might have happened?
But the races had interfered with his plans. M. Wilkie had been
compelled to attend to Pompier de Nanterre, that famous steeplechaser,
of which he owned one-third part, and he had, moreover, to give orders
to the jockey, whose lord and master he was to an equal extent. These
were sacred duties, since Wilkie’s share in a race-horse constituted
his only claim to a footing in fashionable society. But it was a strong
claim--a claim that justified the display of whips and spurs that
decorated his apartments in the Rue du Helder, and allowed him to aspire
to the character of a sporting man. Wilkie really imagined that folks
were waiting for him at Vincennes; and that the fete would not be
complete without his presence.
Still, when he presented himself inside the enclosure, a cigar in his
mouth, and his racing card dangling from his button-hole, he was obliged
to confess that his entrance did not create much of a sensation. An
astonishing bit of news had imparted unusual excitement to the ring.
People were eagerly discussing the Marquis de Valorsay’s sudden
determination to pay forfeit and withdraw his horses from the contest;
and the best informed declared that in the betting-rooms the evening
before he had openly announced his intention of selling his racing
stable. If the marquis had hoped that by adopting this course he would
silence the suspicions which had been aroused, he was doomed to grievous
disappointment. The rumor that he had secretly bet against his own
horse, Domingo, on the previous Sunday, and that he had given orders not
to let the animal win the race, was steadily gaining credence.
Large sums had been staked on Domingo’s success. He had been the
favorite in the betting ring and the losers were by no means pleased.
Some declared that they had seen the jockey hold Domingo back; and they
insisted that it was necessary to make an example, and disqualify both
the marquis and his jockey. Still one weighty circumstance pleaded in
M. de Valorsay’s favor--his fortune, or, at least, the fortune he was
supposed to possess. “Why should such a rich man stoop to cheat?” asked
his defenders. “To put money into one’s pocket in this way is even worse
than to cheat at cards! Besides, it’s impossible! Valorsay is above such
contemptible charges. He is a perfect gentleman.”
“Perhaps so,” replied the skeptical bystanders. “But people said exactly
the same of Croisenois, of the Duc de H., and Baron P., who were finally
convicted of the same rascality that Valorsay is accused of.”
“It’s an infamous slander! If he had been inclined to cheat, he could
have easily diverted suspicion. He would have let Domingo come in
second, not third!”
“If he were not guilty, and afraid of detection, he wouldn’t pay forfeit
to-day nor sell his horses.”
“He only retires from the turf because he’s going to marry----”
“Nonsense! That’s no reason whatever.”
Like all gamblers, the frequenters of the turf are distrustful and
inclined to be quarrelsome. No one is above their suspicions when they
lose nor above their wrath when they are duped. And this Domingo affair
united all the losers against Valorsay; they formed a little battalion
of enemies who were no doubt powerless for the time being, but who were
ready to take a startling revenge whenever a good opportunity presented
itself. Naturally enough, M. Wilkie sided with the marquis, whom he had
heard his friend, M. de Coralth, speak of on several occasions. “Accuse
the dear marquis!” he exclaimed. “It’s contemptible, outrageous. Why,
only last evening he said to me, ‘My good friend, Domingo’s defeat cost
me two thousand louis!’” M. de Valorsay had said nothing of the kind,
for the very good reason that he did not even know Wilkie by sight;
still, no one paid much heed to the assertion, whereat Wilkie felt
vexed, and resolved to turn his attention to his jockey.
The latter was a lazy, worthless fellow, who had been dismissed from
every stable he had previously served in, and who swindled and robbed
the young gentlemen who employed him without either limit or shame.
Although he made them pay him a very high salary--something like eight
thousand francs a year--on the plea that it was most repugnant to his
feelings to act as a groom, trainer, and jockey at the same time, he
regularly every month presented them with fabulous bills from the grain
merchant, the veterinary surgeon, and the harness-maker. In addition, he
regularly sold Pompier’s oats in order to obtain liquor, and in fact the
poor animal was so nearly starved that he could scarcely stand on his
legs. The jockey ascribed the horse’s extreme thinness to a system of
rigorous training; and the owners did not question the statement in the
least. He had made them believe, and they in turn had made many others
believe, that Pompier de Nanterre would certainly win such and such a
race; and, trusting in this fallacious promise, they risked their money
on the poor animal--and lost it.
In point of fact, this jockey would have been the happiest mortal in the
world if such things as steeple-chases had never existed. In the first
place, he judged, with no little reason, that it was dangerous to leap
hurdles on such an animal as Pompier; and, secondly, nothing irritated
him so much as to be obliged to promenade with his three employers in
turn. But how could he refuse, since he knew that if these young men
hired him, it was chiefly, or only in view of, displaying themselves
in his company. It afforded them untold satisfaction to walk to and fro
along the course in front of the grand stand, with their jockey in his
orange jacket with green sleeves. They were firmly convinced that he
reflected enormous credit upon them, and their hearts swelled with joy
at the thought of the envy they no doubt inspired. This conviction gave
rise indeed to terrible quarrels, in which each of the three owners was
wont to accuse the others of monopolizing the jockey.
On this occasion, M. Wilkie--being fortunate enough to arrive the
first--immediately repaired to Pompier de Nanterre’s stall. Never had
circumstances been more favorable for a display of the animal’s speed.
The day was magnificent; the stands were crowded, and thousands of eager
spectators were pushing and jostling one another beyond the ropes which
limited the course. M. Wilkie seemed to be everywhere; he showed himself
in a dozen different places at once, always followed by his jockey, whom
he ordered about in a loud voice, with many excited gesticulations. And
how great his delight was when, as he passed through the crowd, he heard
people exclaim: “That gentleman has a racing stable. His horses are
going to compete!” What bliss thrilled his heart when he overheard the
admiring exclamation of some worthy shopkeeper who was greatly impressed
by the gay silk jacket and the top-boots!
But, unfortunately, this happiness could not last forever. His partners
arrived, and claimed the jockey in their turn. So M. Wilkie left the
course and strolled about among the carriages, until at last he found
an equipage which was occupied by the young ladies who had accepted
his invitation to supper the evening before, and who were now making a
profuse display of the very yellowest hair they possessed. This afforded
him another opportunity of attracting public attention, and to giving
proofs of his “form,” for he had not filled the box of his carriage with
champagne for nothing. At last the decisive moment came, and he made
himself conspicuous by shouting. “Now! Now! Here he is! Look! Bravo,
Pompier! One hundred on Pompier!”
But, alas! poor Pompier de Nanterre fell exhausted before half the
distance was accomplished; and that evening Wilkie described his defeat,
with a profusion of technical terms that inspired the uninitiated with
the deepest awe. “What a disaster, my friends,” he exclaimed. “Pompier
de Nanterre, an incomparable steeplechaser, to break down in such a
fashion! And beaten by whom? My Mustapha, an outsider, without any
record whatever! The ring was intensely excited--and I was simply
crazed.”
However, his defeat did not affect him very deeply. It was forgotten at
thought of the inheritance which his friend Coralth had spoken to him
about. And to-morrow M. de Coralth would tell him the secret. He had
only twenty hours longer to wait! “To-morrow! to-morrow!” he said to
himself again and again, with a thrill of mingled joy and impatience.
And what bright visions of future glory haunted him! He saw himself the
possessor of a magnificent stud, of sufficient wealth to gratify every
fancy; he would splash mud upon all the passers-by, and especially upon
his former acquaintances, as he dashed past them in his superb equipage;
the best tailor should invent astonishing garments for him; he would
make himself conspicuous at all the first performances in a stage-box,
with the most notorious women in Paris; his fetes would be described in
the papers; he would be the continual subject of comment; he would be
credited with splendid, perfect “form.”
It is true that M. de Coralth had promised him all this, without a word
of explanation; but what did that matter? Should he doubt his friend’s
word? Never! The viscount was not merely his model, but his oracle as
well. By the way in which he spoke of him, it might have been supposed
that they had been friends from their childhood, or, at least, that they
had known each other for years. Such was not the case, however. Their
acquaintance dated only seven or eight months back, and their first
meeting had apparently been the result of chance; though it is needless
to say, perhaps, that this chance had been carefully prepared by M. de
Coralth. Having discovered Madame Lia d’Argeles’s secret, the viscount
watched Wilkie, ascertained where he spent his evenings, contrived a way
of introducing himself into his society, and on their third meeting was
skilful enough to render him a service--in other words, to lend him
some money. From that moment the conquest was assured; for M. de Coralth
possessed in an eminent degree all the attributes that were likely to
dazzle and charm the gifted owner of Pompier de Nanterre. First of
all, there was his title, then his impudent assurance and his apparent
wealth, and last, but by no means least, his numerous and fashionable
acquaintances. He was not long in discovering his advantage, and in
profiting by it. And without giving M. Wilkie an inkling of the truth,
he succeeded in obtaining from him as accurate a knowledge of his past
career as the young fellow himself possessed.
M. Wilkie did not know much concerning his origin or his early life; and
his history, so far as he was acquainted with it, could be told in a
few words. His earliest recollection was of the ocean. He was sure,
perfectly sure, that he had made a very long sea voyage when only a
little child, and he looked upon America as his birthplace. The French
language was certainly not the first he had learned, for he still
remembered a limited number of English phrases. The English word
“father” was among those that lingered in his memory; and now, after
a lapse of twenty years, he pronounced it without the least foreign
accent. But while he remembered the word perfectly well, no recollection
remained to him of the person he had called by that name. His first
sensations were those of hunger, weariness, and cold. He recollected,
and very distinctly too, how on one long winter night, a woman had
dragged him after her through the streets of Paris, in an icy rain. He
could still see himself as he wandered on, crying with weariness, and
begging for something to eat. And then the poor woman who held him by
the hand lifted him in her arms and carried him on--on, until her own
strength failed, and she was obliged to set him on the ground again. A
vague portrait of this woman, who was most probably his mother, still
lingered in his memory. According to his description, she was extremely
handsome, tall, and very fair. He had been particularly impressed with
the pale tint and profusion of her beautiful hair.
Their poverty had not lasted long. He remembered being installed with
his mother in a very handsome suite of rooms. A man, who was still
young, and whom he called “Monsieur Jacques,” came every day, and
brought him sweetmeats and playthings. He thought he must have been
about four years old at that time. However, he had enjoyed this
comfortable state of things scarcely a month, when one morning a
stranger presented himself. The visitor held a long conference with his
mother, or, at least, with the person whom he called by that name. He
did not understand what they were talking about, but he was none the
less very uneasy. The result of the interview must have justified his
instinctive fear, for his mother took him on her lap, and embraced him
with convulsive tenderness. She sobbed violently, and repeated again
and again in a faltering voice: “Poor child! my beloved Wilkie! I
shall never kiss you again--never, never! ‘Alas! It must be so! Give me
courage, my God!”
Those were the exact words; Wilkie was sure on that point. It seemed to
him he could still hear that despairing farewell. For it was indeed a
farewell. The stranger took him in his arms and carried him away, in
spite of his cries and struggles to escape. This person to whose care he
was confined was the master of a small boarding-school, and his wife
was the kindest and most patient of women. However, this did not prevent
Wilkie from crying and begging for his mother at first; but gradually he
forgot her. He was not unhappy, for he was petted and indulged more than
any of the other pupils, and he spent most of his time playing on the
terrace or wandering about the garden. But this charming life could not
last for ever. According to his calculation, he was just ten years
old when, one Sunday, toward the end of October, a grave-looking,
red-whiskered gentleman, clad in solemn black with a white necktie,
presented himself at the school, and declared that he had been
instructed by Wilkie’s relatives to place him in a college to continue
his education.
Young Wilkie’s lamentations were long and loud; but they did not prevent
M. Patterson--for that was the gentleman’s name--from taking him to the
college of Louis-the-Great, where he was entered as a boarder. As he
did not study, and as he was only endowed with a small amount of
intelligence, he learned scarcely anything during the years he remained
there. Every Sunday and every fete day, M. Patterson made his appearance
at ten o’clock precisely, took Wilkie for a walk in Paris or the
environs, gave him his breakfast and dinner at some of the best
restaurants, bought everything he expressed a desire to have, and at
nine o’clock precisely took him back to the college again. During the
holidays M. Patterson kept the boy with him, refusing him nothing in the
way of pleasure, granting all his wishes, but never losing sight of him
for a moment. And if Wilkie complained of this constant watchfulness,
M. Patterson always replied, “I must obey orders;” and this answer
invariably put an end to the discussion.
So things went on until it became time for Wilkie to take his degree.
He presented himself for examination; and, of course, he failed.
Fortunately, however, M. Patterson was not at a loss for an expedient.
He placed his charge in a private school; and the following year, at a
cost of five thousand francs, he beguiled a poor devil into running the
risk of three years’ imprisonment, by assuming M. Wilkie’s name, and
passing the examination in his place. In possession of the precious
diploma which opens the door of every career, M. Wilkie now hoped that
his pockets would be filled, and that he would then be set at liberty.
But the hope was vain! M. Patterson placed him in the hands of an old
tutor who had been engaged to travel with him through Europe; and as
this tutor held the purse-strings, Wilkie was obliged to follow him
through Germany, England, and Italy.
When he returned to Paris he was just twenty years old, and the very
next day M. Patterson conducted him to the suite of rooms which he
still occupied in the Rue du Helder. “You are now in your own home, M.
Wilkie,” said M. Patterson in his most impressive manner. “You are now
old enough to be responsible for your own actions, and I hope you will
conduct yourself like an honest man. From this moment you are your own
master. Those who gave you your education desire you to study law. If I
were in your place, I should obey them. If you wish to be somebody, and
to acquire a fortune, work, for you have no property, nor anything
to expect from any one. The allowance which is granted you, a far too
liberal one in my opinion, may be cut off at any moment. I don’t think
it right to conceal this fact from you. But at all events until then.
I am instructed to pay you five thousand francs quarterly. Here is the
amount for the first quarter, and in three months’ time I shall send you
a similar amount. I say ‘shall SEND,’ because my business compels me
to return to England, and take up my abode there. Here is my London
address; and if any serious trouble befalls you, write to me. Now, my
duty being fulfilled, farewell.”
“Go to the devil, you old preacher!” growled Wilkie, as he saw the door
close on the retreating figure of M. Patterson, who had acted as his
guardian for ten years. None of M. Patterson’s wise advice lingered
in the young fellow’s mind. To use a familiar expression, “It went in
through one ear and came out through the other.” Only two facts had made
an impression upon him: that he was to be his own master henceforth, and
that he had a fortune at his command. There it lay upon the table, five
thousand francs in glittering gold.
If M. Wilkie had taken the trouble to attentively examine the rooms
which had suddenly become his own, he would perhaps have recognized the
fact that a loving hand had prepared them for his reception. Countless
details revealed the delicate taste of a woman, and the thoughtful
tenderness of a mother. None of those little superfluities which delight
a young man had been forgotten. There was a box of choice cigars upon
the table, and a jar of tobacco on the mantel-shelf. But Wilkie did not
take time to discover this. He hastily slipped five hundred francs into
his pocket, locked the rest of his money in a drawer, and went out with
as lofty an air as if all Paris belonged to him, or as if he had enough
money to purchase it.
He had resolved to give a fete in honor of his deliverance, and so he
hurried off in search of some of his old college chums. He found two of
them; and, although it was very wounding to his self-love, M. Wilkie was
obliged to confess to them that this was his first taste of liberty,
and that he scarcely knew what to do with himself. Of course his friends
assured him that they could quickly make him acquainted with the only
life that it was worth while living; and, to prove it, they accepted
the invitation to dinner which he immediately offered them. It was a
remarkable repast. Other acquaintances dropped in, the wine flowed in
rivers; and after dinner they danced. And at day-break, having served
his apprenticeship at baccarat, M. Wilkie found himself without a penny
in his pocket, and face to face with a bill of four hundred francs, for
which amount he was obliged to go to his rooms, under the escort of one
of the waiters. This first experiment ought to have disgusted him, or at
least have made him reflect. But no. He felt quite in his element in the
society of dissipated young men and enamelled women. He swore that he
would win a place in their midst, and an influential place too. But
it was easier to form this plan than to carry it into execution, as he
discovered when, at the end of the month, he counted his money to see
what remained of the five thousand francs that had been given him for
his quarterly allowance. He had just three hundred francs left.
Twenty thousand francs a year is what one chooses to make it--wealth or
poverty. Twenty thousand francs a year represents about sixty francs a
day; but what are sixty francs to a high liver, who breakfasts and dines
at the best restaurants, whose clothes are designed by an illustrious
tailor, who declines to make a pair of trousers for less than a hundred
francs? What are three louis a day to a man who hires a box for first
performances at the opera, to a man who gambles and gives expensive
suppers, to a man who drives out with yellow-haired demoiselles, and
who owns a race-horse? Measuring his purse and his ambition, M. Wilkie
discovered that he should never succeed in making both ends meet. “How
do other people manage?” he wondered. A puzzling question! Every evening
a thousand gorgeously apparelled gentlemen, with a cigar in their mouth
and a flower in their button-hole, may be seen promenading between the
Chaussee d’Antin and the Faubourg Montmartre. Everybody knows them,
and they know everybody, but how they exist is a problem which it
is impossible to solve. How do they live, and what do they live on?
Everybody knows that they have no property; they do nothing, and yet
they are reckless in their expenditures, and rail at work and jeer at
economy. What source do they derive their money from? What vile business
are they engaged in?
However, M. Wilkie did not devote much time to solving this question.
“My relatives must wish me to starve,” he said to himself. “Not I--I’m
not that sort of a person, as I’ll soon let them know.” And thereupon
he wrote to M. Patterson. By return of post that gentleman sent him a
cheque for one thousand francs--a mere drop in the bucket. M. Wilkie
felt indignant and so he wrote again. This time he was obliged to wait
for a reply. Still at last it came. M. Patterson sent him two thousand
francs, and an interminable epistle full of reproaches. The interesting
young man threw the letter into the fire, and went out to hire a
carriage by the month and a servant.
From that day forward, his life was spent in demanding money and waiting
for it. He employed in quick succession every pretext that could soften
the hearts of obdurate relatives, or find the way to the most closely
guarded cash-box. He was ill--he had contracted a debt of honor--he had
imprudently lent money to an unscrupulous friend--he was about to be
arrested for debt. And in accordance with the favorable or unfavorable
character of the replies his manner became humble or impertinent, so
that his friends soon learned to judge very accurately of the condition
of his purse by the way he wore his mustaches. He became wise with
experience, however; and on adding all the sums he had received
together, he decided that his family must be very rich to allow him so
much money. And this thought made him anxious to fathom the mystery of
his birth and his infancy. He finally persuaded himself that he was the
son of a great English nobleman--a member of the House of Lords, who was
twenty times a millionaire. And he more than half believed it when he
told his creditors that his lordship, his father, would some day or
other come to Paris and pay all his debts. Unfortunately it was not
M. Wilkie’s noble father that arrived, but a letter from M. Patterson,
which was couched as follows:
“MY DEAR SIR, a considerable sum was placed in my hands to meet your
unexpected requirements; and in compliance with your repeated appeals,
I have remitted the entire amount to you. Not a penny remains in my
possession--so that my instructions have been fulfilled. Spare yourself
the trouble of making any fresh demands; they will meet with no reply.
In future you will not receive a penny above your allowance, which in my
opinion is already too large a one for a young man of your age.”
This letter proved a terrible blow to Wilkie. What should he do? He felt
that M. Patterson would not revoke his decision; and indeed he wrote him
several imploring letters, in vain. Yet never had his need of money been
so urgent. His creditors were becoming uneasy; bills actually rained in
upon his concierge; his next quarterly allowance was not due for some
time to come, and it was only through the pawnbroker that he could
obtain money for his more pressing requirements. He had begun to
consider himself ruined. He saw himself reduced to dismissing his
carriage, to selling his third share of Pompier de Nanterre and losing
the esteem of all his witty friends.
He was in the depths of despair, when one morning his servant woke
him up with the announcement that the Viscount de Coralth was in the
sitting-room and wished to speak with him on very important business. It
was not usually an easy task to entice M. Wilkie from his bed, but the
name his servant mentioned seemed to have a prodigious effect upon
him. He bounded on to the floor, and as he hastily dressed himself, he
muttered: “The viscount here, at this hour! It’s astonishing! What if
he’s going to fight a duel and wishes me to be his second? That would be
a piece of grand good luck and no mistake. It would assure my position
at once. Certainly something must have happened!”
This last remark was by no means a proof of any remarkable perspicuity
on M. Wilkie’s part. As M. de Coralth never went to bed until two or
three o’clock in the morning, he was by no means an early riser,
and only some very powerful reason could explain the presence of his
blue-lined brougham in the street before nine o’clock A.M. And the
influence that had made him rise betimes in the present case had indeed
been extremely powerful. Although the brilliant viscount had discovered
Madame d’Argeles’s secret, several months previously, he had so far
disclosed it to no one. It was certainly not from any delicacy of
feeling that he had held his peace; but only because it had not been for
his interest to speak. Now, however, the sudden death of the Count de
Chalusse changed the situation. He heard of the catastrophe at his club
on the evening after the count’s death, and his emotion was so great
that he actually declined to take part in a game of baccarat that was
just beginning. “The devil!” he exclaimed. “Let me think a moment.
Madame d’Argeles is the heiress of all these millions--will she come
forward and claim them? From what I know of her, I am inclined to think
that she won’t. Will she ever go to Wilkie and confess that she, Lia
d’Argeles, is a Chalusse, and that he is her illegitimate son? Never!
She would rather relinquish her millions, both for herself and for
him, than take such a step. She is so ridiculously antiquated in her
notions.” And then he began to study what advantages he might derive
from his knowledge of the situation.
M. de Coralth, like all persons whose present is more or less uncertain,
had great misgivings concerning his future. Just now he was cunning
enough to find a means of procuring the thirty or forty thousand francs
a year that were indispensable to his comfort; but he had not a farthing
laid by, and the vein of silver he was now working might fail him at any
moment. The slightest indiscretion, the least blunder, might hurl him
from his splendor into the mire. The perspiration started out on his
forehead when he thought of his peril. He passionately longed for a more
assured position--for a little capital that would insure him his bread
until the end of his days, and rid him of the grim phantom of poverty
forever. And it was this desire which inspired him with the same plan
that M. Fortunat had formed. “Why shouldn’t I inform Wilkie?” he said to
himself. “If I present him with a fortune, the simpleton ought certainly
to give me some reward.” But to carry this plan into execution it would
be necessary to brave Madame d’Argeles’s anger; and that was attended by
no little danger. If he knew something about her, she on her side knew
everything connected with his past life. She had only to speak to
ruin him forever. Still, after weighing all the advantages and all the
dangers, he decided to act, convinced that Madame d’Argeles might
be kept ignorant of his treason, providing he only played his cards
skilfully. And his matutinal visit to M. Wilkie was caused by a fear
that he might not be the only person knowing the truth, and that some
one else might forestall him.
“You here, at sunrise, my friend!” exclaimed Wilkie, as he entered the
room where the viscount was seated. “What has happened?”
“To me?--nothing,” replied the viscount. “It was solely on your account
that I deviated from my usual habits.”
“What is it? You frighten me.”
“Oh! don’t be alarmed. I have only some good news to communicate,” and
in a careless tone which cleverly concealed his anxiety, the viscount
added: “I have come, my dear Wilkie, to ask you what you would be
willing to give the man who put you in possession of a fortune of
several millions?”
M. Wilkie’s face turned from white to purple at least three times in ten
seconds; and it was in a strangely altered voice that he replied: “Ah!
that’s good--very good--excellent!” He tried his best to laugh, but
he was completely overcome; and, in fact, he had cherished so many
extravagant hopes that nothing seemed impossible to him.
“Never in all my life have I spoken more seriously,” insisted the
viscount.
His companion at first made no reply. It was easy to divine the conflict
that was raging in his mind, between the hope that the news was true
and the fear of being made the victim of a practical joke. “Come, my
friend,” he said at last, “do you want to poke fun at me? That wouldn’t
be polite. A debtor is always sacred, and I owe you twenty-five louis.
This is scarcely the time to talk of millions. My relatives have cut off
my supplies; and my creditors are overwhelming me with their bills----”
But M. de Coralth checked him, saying gravely: “Upon my honor, I am not
jesting. What would you give a man who--”
“I would give him half of the fortune he gave me.”
“That’s too much!”
“No, no!”
He was in earnest, certainly. What wouldn’t a man promise in all
sincerity of soul to a fellow mortal who gave him money when he had
none--when he needed it urgently and must have it to save himself from
ruin?
At such a moment no commission, however large, seems exorbitant. It is
afterward, when the day of settlement comes, that people begin to find
fault with the rate of interest.
“If I tell you that one-half is too much, it is because such is really
the case. And I am the best judge of the matter, since I am the man who
can put you in possession of this enormous fortune.”