“This won’t do,” muttered he; “it must be plastered, and then repapered.”

He picked up the bits of brick and plaster that lay on the floor, and threw them into the fire, and then pushed a large screen in front of the rough brickwork.  He had just finished his work when Hortebise entered the room, with his perpetually smiling face.

“Now, you unbeliever,” cried Mascarin gaily, “is not fortune within our grasp?  Tantaine and Mascarin are dead, or rather, they never existed.  Beaumarchef is on his way to America, La Candele will be in London in a week, and now we may enjoy our millions.”

“Heaven grant it,” said the doctor piously.

“Pooh, pooh! we have nothing more to fear, as you would have known had you gone into the case as thoroughly as I have done.  Who was the enemy whom we had most need to dread?  Why, Andre.  He certainly is not dead, but he is laid up for some weeks, and that is enough.  Besides, he has given up the game, for one of my men who managed to get into the hospital says that he has not received a visitor or dispatched a letter for the last fifteen days.”

“But he had friends.”

“Pshaw! friends always forget you!  Why, where was M. de
Breulh-Faverlay?”

“It is the racing season, and he is a fixture in his stables.”

“Madame de Bois Arden?”

“The new fashions are sufficient for her giddy head.”

“M.  Gandelu?”

“He has his son’s affairs to look after and there is no one else of any consequence.”

“And how about young Gandelu?”

“Oh! he has yielded to Tantaine’s winning power, and has made it up with Rose, and the turtle doves have taken wing for Florence.”

But the doctor was still dissatisfied.  “I am uneasy about the Mussidans,” said he.

“And pray why?  De Croisenois has been very well received.  I don’t say that Mademoiselle Sabine has exactly jumped into his arms, but she thanks him every evening for the flowers he sends in the morning, and you can’t expect more than that.”

“I wish the Count had not put off the marriage.  Why did he do so?”

“It annoys me, too; but we can’t have everything; set your mind at rest.”

By this time the banker had contrived to reassure the doctor.

“Besides,” he added, “everything is going on well, even our Tafila mines.  I have taxed our people, according to their means, from one to twenty thousand francs, and we are certain of a million.”

The doctor rubbed his hands, and a delicious prospect of enjoyments stretched out before him.

“I have seen Catenac,” continued Martin Rigal.  “He has returned from Vendome, and the Duke de Champdoce is wild with hope and expectation, and is on the path which he thinks will take him to his son.”

“And how about Perpignan?”

Mascarin laughed.

“Perpignan is just as much a dupe as the Duke is; he thinks absolutely that he has discovered all the clues that I myself placed on his road.  Before, however, they have quite concluded their investigations, Paul will be my daughter’s husband and Flavia the future Duchess of Champdoce, with an income that a monarch might envy.”