"And
this letter?" he interrupted, at last.
"Well?"
"You promised to let me read it."
"That's true--that's quite true; but it would be as well to have
some mocha first, would it not? What if we ordered some mocha,
eh?"
Coffee was served, and when the waiter had closed the door, M.
Casimir drew the letter, the scraps of which were fixed together,
from his pocket, and unfolded it, saying: "Attention; I'm going to
read."
This did not suit M. Fortunat's fancy. He would infinitely have
preferred perusing it himself; but it is impossible to argue with
an intoxicated man, and so M. Casimir with a more and more
indistinct enunciation read as follows: "'Paris, October 14, 186--
.' So the lady lives in Paris, as usual. After this she puts
neither 'monsieur,' nor 'my friend,' nor 'dear count,' nothing at
all. She begins abruptly: 'Once before, many years ago, I came to
you as a suppliant. You were pitiless, and did not even deign to
answer me. And yet, as I told you, I was on the verge of a
terrible precipice; my brain was reeling, vertigo had seized hold
of me. Deserted, I was wandering about Paris, homeless and
penniless, and my child was starving!'"
M. Casimir paused to laugh. "That's like all the rest of them,"
he exclaimed; "that is exactly like all the rest! I've ten such
letters in my drawer, even more imperative in their demands. If
you'll come home with me after breakfast, I'll show them to you.
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