"He? Among such honourable people?"
"Why not? He was employed by you."
"But, as I have told you, my dear M. Pascal, I sent him away as soon as his conduct was known to me."
"I understand perfectly. Only, as he is without a position, he must have, in order to enter the Durand house, a letter of recommendation from you, as the Durands are not willing to accept the poor fellow otherwise; now this letter, my dear Dutertre, I come honestly to ask of you."
After a moment of astonishment, Dutertre said, with a smile:
"After all, I ought not to be astonished. You are so kind! This man is full of artifice and falsity, and knows how to take advantage of your confidence."
"I believe, really, that Marcelange is very false, very sly; but that need not prevent your giving me the letter I ask."
Dutertre could not believe that he had heard aright, or that he understood M. Pascal, and replied:
"I beg your pardon, sir. I have just told you that — "
"You have reason to complain of an act of indelicacy on the part of this fellow, but, bah! what does that matter?"
"What! M. Pascal, you ask, what does it matter? Know then, that, in my eyes, this man's act was even more blamable than fraud in money matters."
"I believe you, my dear Dutertre, I believe you; there is no better judge of honourable dealing than yourself. Marcelange seems to me truly a cunning rascal, and, if I must tell you, it is on that account that I insist — insist very much on his being recommended by you."
"Honestly, M. Pascal, I believe that I should be acting a dishonourable part in aiding the entrance of Marcelange into a thoroughly respectable house."
"Come, now, do this for me!"
"You are not speaking seriously, M. Pascal?"
"I am speaking very seriously."
"After what I have just confided to you?"
"My God! yes, why not?"
"You! you! honour and loyalty itself!"
"I, the impersonation of honour and loyalty, ask you to give me this letter."
Dutertre looked at M. Pascal, bewildered; then, after a moment's reflection, he replied, in a tone of affectionate reproach:
"Ah, sir, after a year has elapsed, was this proof necessary?"
"What proof?"
"To propose an unworthy action to me, that you might feel assured that I deserved your confidence."
"My dear Dutertre, I repeat to you that I must have this letter. It concerns an affair which is very important to me."
M. Pascal was speaking seriously. Dutertre could no longer doubt it. He then remembered the words of his father, the antipathy of his little girl, and, seized with a vague dread, he replied, in a constrained voice:
"So, monsieur, you forget the grave responsibility which would rest upon me if I did what you desire."
"Eh, my God! my brave Dutertre, if we only asked easy things of our friends!"
"You ask of me an impossible thing, monsieur."
"So, then, you refuse to do it for me, do you?"
"M. Pascal," said Dutertre, with an accent at the same time firm and full of emotion, "I owe you everything. There is not a day that I, my wife, and my father do not recall the fact that, one year ago, without your unexpected succour, our own ruin, and the ruin of many other people, would have been inevitable. All that gratitude can inspire of respect and affection we feel for you. Every possible proof of devotion we are ready to give you with pleasure, with happiness, but — "
"One word more, and you will understand me," interrupted M. Pascal. "Since I must tell you, Dutertre, I have a special interest in having some one who belongs to me — entirely to me, you understand, entirely mine — in the business house of Durand. Now, you can comprehend that, holding Marcelange by this letter which you will give me for him, and by what I know of his antecedents, I can make him my creature, my blind instrument. This is entirely between us, my dear Dutertre, and, counting on your absolute discretion, I will go further even, and I will tell you that — "
"Not a word more on this subject, sir, I beg," exclaimed Dutertre, with increasing surprise and distress, for up to that time he had believed Pascal to be a man of incorruptible integrity. "Not a word more. There are secrets whose confidence one does not wish to accept."
"Why?"
"Because they might become very embarrassing, sir."
"Really! The confidences of an old friend can become an annoyance! Very well, I will keep them. Then, give me this letter without any more explanations."
"I repeat to you, sir, that it is impossible for me to do so."
M. Pascal bit his lips and unconsciously knit his eyebrows; as surprised as he was angry at the refusal of Dutertre, he could scarcely believe that a man who was dependent upon him could have the audacity to oppose his will, or the courage to sacrifice the present and the future to a scruple of honour.
However, as he had a special interest in this letter, he replied, with a tone of affectionate reproach:
"What! You refuse me that, my dear Dutertre, — refuse me, your friend?"
"I refuse you above all, — you who have had faith enough in my incorruptible honesty to advance for me, without even knowing me, a considerable amount."
"Come, my dear Dutertre, do not make me more adventurous than I am. Are not your honesty, your intelligence, your interest even, and at any rate the material in your factory, sufficient security for my capital? Am I not always in a safe position, by the right I reserve to myself, to exact repayment at will? A right which I will not exercise in your case for a long time, as I know. I am too much interested in you to do that, Dutertre," as he saw astonishment and anguish depicted in Dutertre's face, "but, indeed, let us suppose, — oh, it will not come to that, thank God, — but let us suppose that, in the constrained condition and trying crisis in which business is at present, I should say to you to-day, M. Dutertre, I shall need my money in a month, and I withdraw my credit from you."
"Great God!" exclaimed Dutertre, terrified, staggered at the bare supposition of such a disaster, "I would go into bankruptcy! It would be my ruin, the loss of my business; I would be obliged, perhaps, to work with my own hands, if I could find employment, to support my infirm father, my wife, and my children."
"Will you be silent, you wicked man, and not put such painful things before my eyes! You are going to spoil my whole day!" exclaimed M. Pascal, with irresistible good-nature, taking Dutertre's hands in his own. "Do you speak in this way, when I, like you, am making a festivity of this morning? Well, well, what is the matter? How pale you look, now!"
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Dutertre, wiping the drops of cold sweat from his brow, "but at the very thought of such an unexpected blow which would strike all that I hold dearest in the world, my honour, my family, my labour — Ah, yes, monsieur, you are right, let us drive this thought far from us, it is too horrible."
"Eh! my God, that is just what I was saying to you; do not let us make this charming day a sad one. So, to finish the matter," added M. Pascal, cheerfully, "let us hurry over business affairs, let us empty our bag, as the saying is. Give me this letter, and we will talk no more about it."
Dutertre started, a frightful pain wrung his heart, and he replied:
"Such persistence astonishes and distresses me, monsieur. I repeat to you it is absolutely impossible for me to do what you ask."
"What a child you are! my persistent request proves