“Oh! oh!” said the cure, “a man who has money either pays his debts, or is a cheat. Now Heaven preserve me from suspecting Monsieur Derues’ honesty!” “What do you know about him?” “Do you remember Brother Marchois of the Camaldulians, who came to see me last spring, and who was here the day Monsieur Derues arrived, with your wife and Edouard?” “Perfectly. Well?” “Well, I happened to tell him in one of my letters that Monsieur Derues had become the purchaser of Buisson-Souef, and that I believed the arrangements were concluded. Thereupon Brother Marchois wrote asking me to remind him that he owes them a sum of eight hundred livres, and that, so far, they have not seen a penny of it.” “Ah!” said Monsieur de Lamotte, “perhaps I should have done better not to let myself be deluded by his fine promises. He certainly has money on his tongue, and when once one begins to listen to him, one can’t help doing what he wants. All the same, I had rather have had to deal with someone else.” “And is it this which worries you, and makes you seem so anxious?” “This and other things.” “What, then?” “I am really ashamed to own it, but I am a credulous and timid as any old woman. Now do not laugh at me too much. Do you believe in dreams?” “Monsieur,” said the cure, smiling, “you should never ask a coward whether he is afraid, you only risk his telling a lie. He will say ‘No,’ but he means ‘Yes.’” “And are you a coward, my father?” “A little. I don’t precisely believe all the nursery, tales, or in the favourable or unfavourable meaning of some object seen during our sleep, but—” A sound of steps interrupted them, a servant entered, announcing Monsieur Derues. On hearing the name, Monsieur de Lamotte felt troubled in spite of himself, but, overcoming the impression, he rose to meet the visitor. “You had better stay,” he said to the cure, who was also rising to take leave. “Stay; we have probably nothing to say which cannot be said before you.” Derues entered the room, and, after the usual compliments, sat down by the fire, opposite Monsieur de Lamotte. “You did not expect me,” he said, “and I ought to apologise for surprising you thus.” “Give me some news of my wife,” asked Monsieur de Lamotte anxiously. “She has never been better. Your son is also to perfect health.” “But why are you alone? Why does not Marie accompany you? It is ten weeks since she went to Paris.” “She has not yet quite finished the business with which you entrusted her. Perhaps I am partly the cause of this long absence, but one cannot transact business as quickly as one would wish. But, you have no doubt heard from her, that all is finished, or nearly so, between us. We have drawn up a second private contract, which annuls the former agreement, and I have paid over a sum of one hundred thousand livres.” “I do not comprehend,” said Monsieur de Lamotte. “What can induce my wife not to inform me of this?” “You did not know?”