Do as I do--
confess that the game is lost."
The marquis was listening with an air of suppressed wrath; his
face was crimson, there was a dark frown on his brow, and his
hands were clinched. He was apparently furious with passion, but
in reality he was perfectly self-possessed. The best proof that
can be given of his coolness is that he was carefully studying M.
Fortunat's face, and trying to discover the agent's real
intentions under his meaningless words. He had expected to find
"his dear extortioner" exasperated by his loss, cursing and
swearing, and demanding his money--but not at all. He found him
more gentle and calm, colder and more reserved than ever; brimful
of resignation indeed, and preaching submission to the inevitable.
"What can this mean?" he thought, with an anxious heart. "What
mischief is the scoundrel plotting now? I'd wager a thousand to
one that he's forging some thunderbolt to crush me." And, in a
haughty tone, he said aloud:
"In a word, you desert me."
With a deprecatory gesture, M. Fortunat exclaimed: "I desert you,
Monsieur le Marquis! What have I done that you should think so ill
of me? Alas! circumstances are the only traitors. I shouldn't
like to deprive you of the courage you so much need, but,
honestly, it would be folly to struggle against destiny. How can
you hope to succeed in your plans? Have you not resorted to every
possible expedient to prolong your apparently brilliant existence
until the present time? Are you not at such a point that you must
marry Mademoiselle Marguerite in a month's time, or perish? And
now the count's millions are lost! If I might be allowed to give
you some advice, I should say, 'The shipwreck is inevitable; think
only of saving yourself.
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