have just one-third of what is needed.”
“Only one-third?”
“With great care, and by scraping together all I possess, I can make up eight hundred livres. But may I be damned in the next world, or punished as a swindler in this, and one’s as bad as the other to me, if I can raise one farthing more.”
“But suppose someone should lend you the twelve hundred francs, what then?”
“Pardieu! I should accept them,” cried the notary as if he had not the least suspicion whom she could mean. “Do you happen to know anyone, my dear Madame Rapally?”
The widow nodded affirmatively, at the same time giving him a passionate glance.
“Tell me quick the name of this delightful person, and I shall go to him to-morrow morning. You don’t know what a service you are rendering me. And I was so near not telling you of the fix I was in, lest you should torment yourself uselessly. Tell me his name.”
“Can you not guess it?”
“How should I guess it?”
“Think well. Does no one occur to you?”
“No, no one,” said Quennebert, with the utmost innocence.
“Have you no friends?”
“One or two.”
“Would they not be glad to help you?”
“They might. But I have mentioned the matter to no one.”
“To no one?”
“Except you.”
“Well?”
“Well, Madame Rapally – I hope I don’t understand you; it’s not possible; you would not humiliate me. Come, come, it’s a riddle, and I am too stupid to solve it. I give it up. Don’t tantalise me any longer; tell me the name.”
The widow, somewhat abashed by this exhibition of delicacy on the part of Maitre Quennebert, blushed, cast down her eyes, and did not venture to speak.
As the silence lasted some time, it occurred to the notary that he had been perhaps too hasty in his supposition, and he began to cast round for the best means of retrieving his blunder.
“You do not speak,” he said; “I see it was all a joke.”
“No,” said the widow at last in a timid voice, “it was no joke; I was quite in earnest. But the way you take things is not very encouraging.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pray, do you imagine that I can go on while you glare at me with that angry frown puckering your forehead, as if you had someone before you who had tried to insult you?”
A sweet smile chased the frown from the notary’s brow. Encouraged by the suspension of hostilities, Madame Rapally with sudden boldness approached him, and, pressing one of his hands in both her own, whispered —
“It is I who am going to lend you the money.”
He repulsed her gently, but with an air of great dignity, and said —
“Madame, I thank you, but I cannot accept.”
“Why can’t you?”
At this he began to walk round and round the room, while the widow, who stood in the middle, turned as upon a pivot, keeping him always in view. This circus-ring performance lasted some minutes before Quennebert stood still and said —
“I cannot be angry with you, Madame Rapally, I know your offer was made out of the kindness of your heart, – but I must repeat that it is impossible for me to accept it.”
“There you go again! I don’t understand you at all! Why can’t you accept? What harm would it do?”
“If there were no other reason, because people might suspect that I confided my difficulties to you in the hope of help.”
“And supposing you did, what then? People speak hoping to be understood. You wouldn’t have minded asking anyone else.”
“So you really think I did come in that hope?”
“Mon Dieu! I don’t think anything at all that you don’t want. It was I who dragged the confidence from you by my questions, I know that very well. But now that you have told me your secret, how can you hinder me from sympathising with you, from desiring to aid you? When I learned your difficulty, ought I to have been amused, and gone into fits of laughter? What! it’s an insult to be in a position to render you a service! That’s a strange kind of delicacy!”
“Are you astonished that I should feel so strongly about it?”
“Nonsense! Do you still think I meant to offend you? I look on you as the most honourable man in the world. If anyone were to tell me that he had seen you commit a base action, I should reply that it was a lie. Does that satisfy you?”
“But suppose they got hold of it in the city, suppose it were reported that Maitre Quennebert had taken money from Madame de Rapally, would it be the same as if they said Maitre Quennebert had borrowed twelve hundred livres from Monsieur Robert or some other business man?”
“I don’t see what difference it could make.”
“But I do.”
“What then?”
“It’s not easy to express, but – ”
“But you exaggerate both the service and the gratitude you ought to feel. I think I know why you refuse. You’re ashamed to take it as a gift, aren’t you.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I’m not going to make you a gift. Borrow twelve hundred livres from me. For how long do you want the money?”
“I really don’t know how soon I can repay you.”
“Let’s say a year, and reckon the interest. Sit down there, you baby, and write out a promissory note.”
Maitre Quennebert made some further show of resistance, but at last yielded to the widow’s importunity. It is needless to say that the whole thing was a comedy on his part, except that he really needed the money. But he did not need it to replace a sum of which a faithless friend had robbed him, but to satisfy his own creditors, who, out of all patience with him, were threatening to sue him, and his only reason for seeking out Madame de Rapally was to take advantage of her generous disposition towards himself. His feigned delicacy was intended to induce her to insist so urgently, that in accepting he should not fall too much in her esteem, but should seem to yield to force. And his plan met with complete success, for at the end of the transaction he stood higher than ever in the opinion of his fair creditor, on account of the noble sentiments he had expressed. The note was written out in legal form and the money counted down on the spot.
“How glad I am!” said she then, while Quennebert still kept up some pretence of delicate embarrassment, although he could not resist casting a stolen look at the bag of crowns lying on the table beside his cloak. “Do you intend to go back to Saint
