"Could that be, monseigneur?"
"I say," repeated the prince, with emphasis, "I say I do not see why an illustrious title and high dignities should not recompense you also."
"Me, monseigneur?"
"You."
"Me, monseigneur, I become Prince Pascal?"
"Why not?"
"Come, come, monseigneur is laughing at his poor servant."
"No one has ever doubted my promise, monsieur, and it is almost an offence to me to believe me capable of laughing at you."
"Then, monseigneur, I would laugh at myself, very heartily and very long, if I were stupid enough to desire to pose as a prince, or duke, or marquis, in Europe's carnival of nobility! You see, monseigneur, I am only a poor devil of a plebeian, — my father was a peddler, and I have been a day-labourer. I have laid up a few cents, in attending to my small affairs. I have only my common sense, but this good common sense, monseigneur, will always prevent my decking myself out as the Marquis de la Janotière — that is a very pretty story by Voltaire, you ought to read it, monseigneur! — or making myself the laughing-stock of those malicious people who amuse themselves by creating marquises and princes out of poor folk."
The archduke was far from expecting this refusal and this bitter retort; however, he put a good face on it, and replied, significantly:
"M. Pascal, I admire this rough sincerity; I admire this disinterestedness. Thank God, there are other means of proving to you my gratitude, and, one day, my friendship."
"Your friendship, monseigneur?"
"It is because I know its worth," added the prince, with imposing dignity, "that I assure you of my friendship, if — "
"Your friendship for me, monseigneur," replied Pascal, interrupting the prince, "your friendship for me, who have, as the wicked ones say, increased my little possessions a hundredfold by dangerous methods, although I have come out of these calumniating accusations as white as a young dove?"
"It is because you have, as you say, monsieur, come out of these odious calumnies, by which all who elevate themselves by labour and merit are pursued, that I would assure you of my affectionate gratitude, if you render me the important service I expect of you."
"Monseigneur, I could not be more impressed or more flattered by your kindness, but unfortunately business is business," said M. Pascal, "and this affair you air does not suit me at all. I need not say how much it costs me to renounce the friendship of which your Royal Highness has desired to assure me."
At this response, bitter and humiliating in its insulting irony, the prince was on the point of flying into a passion, but, reflecting upon the shame and futility of such a transport of rage, he controlled himself, and, desiring to attempt a final effort, he said, in an aggrieved tone:
"So, M. Pascal, it will be said that I prayed, supplicated, and implored you in vain."
These words, "prayed, supplicated, implored," uttered in a tone of sincere distress, appeared in the eyes of the prince to make an impression on M. Pascal, and, in fact, did make a decided impression, inasmuch as, up to that moment, the archduke had not entirely abased himself, but seeing this royal person, after such obstinate refusal, willing to descend to further supplication, M. Pascal experienced an intensity of happiness that he had never known before.
The prince, observing his silence, believed his purpose was shaken, and added, readily:
"Come, my dear M. Pascal, I cannot appeal to your generous heart in vain."
"Really, monseigneur," replied the bloodthirsty villain, who, knowing the speculation to be a good one, was at heart disposed to undertake it, but wanted to realise pleasure as well as profit from it, "you have such a way of putting things. Business, I repeat, ought to be business only, but see now, in spite of myself, I yield like a child to sentiment I am so weak — "
"You consent?" interrupted the prince, radiant with joy, and he seized both hands of the financier in his own. "You consent, my worthy and kind M. Pascal?"
"How can I resist you, monseigneur?"
"At last!" cried the archduke, drawing a long breath of profound satisfaction, as if he had just escaped a frightful danger. "At last!"
"But, monseigneur," replied Pascal, "I must make one little condition."
"Oh, I shall not stand on that, whatever it may be. I subscribe to it beforehand."
"You pledge yourself to more, perhaps, than you think, monseigneur."
"What do you mean?" asked the prince, somewhat disquieted. "What condition do you speak of?"
"In three days, monseigneur, to the hour, I will inform you."
"What!" exclaimed the prince, astonished and crestfallen; "more delays. Do you not give me your positive promise?"
"In three days, monseigneur, I will give it to you, provided you accept my condition."
"But, pray, tell me this condition now."
"Impossible, monseigneur."
"My dear M. Pascal — "
"Monseigneur," replied Pascal, with ironical gravity, "it is not my habit to be weak twice in succession during one interview. It is now the hour for my appointment in the Faubourg St. Marceau; I have the honour of presenting my respectful compliments to your Royal Highness."
M. Pascal, leaving the prince full of vexation and concern, walked to the door, then turned, and said:
"To-day is Monday; on Thursday, at eleven o'clock, I shall have the honour of seeing your Royal Highness again, and will then submit my little condition."
"Very well, monsieur; on Thursday."
M. Pascal bowed profoundly, and went out.
When he passed through the parlour where the officials were assembled all rose respectfully, recognising the importance of the person whom the prince had just received. M. Pascal returned their courtesy with a patronising inclination of the head, and left the palace as he had entered it, both hands in his pockets, not denying himself the pleasure — for this man lost nothing — of stopping a minute before the lodge of the porter and saying to him:
"Well, scoundrel, will you recognise me another time?"
"Oh, I shall recognise monsieur hereafter! I beg monsieur to pardon my mistake."
"He begs me," said Pascal, half aloud, with a bitter smile. "They know how to beg from the Royal Highness to the porter."
M. Pascal, as he went out of the Élysée, fell again into painful reflections upon the subject of the young girl whose secret meeting with Count Frantz de Neuberg he had surprised. Wishing to know if she lived in the house contiguous to the palace, he was going to make inquiries, when, remembering that such a course might perhaps compromise his plans, he prudently resolved to wait until evening.
Seeing a hackney coach, he called the driver, entered the carriage, and said to him:
"Faubourg St. Marceau, fifteen; the large factory whose chimney you see from the street."
"The factory belonging to M. Dutertre? I know, citizen, I know; everybody knows that."
The coachman drove down the street.
CHAPTER IV
M. Pascal, as we have said, had spent a part of his life in a subordinate and precarious position, enduring the most ignominious treatment with a patience full of bitterness and hatred.
Born of a peddler who had amassed a competency