“Devil fetch me, if I’ll sign such a deed of partnership!” the stout Cointet cried bluntly. “You may throw away your money if you like, Boniface; as for me, I shall keep mine. Here is my offer--to pay M. Séchard’s debts _and_ six thousand francs, and another three thousand francs in bills at twelve and fifteen months,” he added. “That will be quite enough risk to run.--We have a balance of twelve thousand francs against Métivier. That will make fifteen thousand francs.--That is all that I would pay for the secret if I were going to exploit it for myself. So this is the great discovery that you were talking about, Boniface! Many thanks! I thought you had more sense. No, you can’t call this business.” “The question for you,” said Petit-Claud, undismayed by the explosion, “resolves itself into this: ‘Do you care to risk twenty thousand francs to buy a secret that may make rich men of you?’ Why, the risk usually is in proportion to the profit, gentlemen. You stake twenty thousand francs on your luck. A gambler puts down a louis at roulette for a chance of winning thirty-six, but he knows that the louis is lost. Do the same.” “I must have time to think it over,” said the stout Cointet; “I am not so clever as my brother. I am a plain, straight-forward sort of chap, that only knows one thing--how to print prayer-books at twenty sous and sell them for two francs. Where I see an invention that has only been tried once, I see ruin. You succeed with the first batch, you spoil the next, you go on, and you are drawn in; for once put an arm into that machinery, the rest of you follows,” and he related an anecdote very much to the point--how a Bordeaux merchant had ruined himself by following a scientific man’s advice, and trying to bring the Landes into cultivation; and followed up the tale with half-a-dozen similar instances of agricultural and commercial failures nearer home in the departments of the Charente and Dordogne. He waxed warm over his recitals. He would not listen to another word. Petit-Claud’s demurs, so far from soothing the stout Cointet, appeared to irritate him. “I would rather give more for a certainty, if I made only a small profit on it,” he said, looking at his brother. “It is my opinion that things have gone far enough for business,” he concluded. “Still you came here for something, didn’t you?” asked Petit-Claud. “What is your offer?” “I offer to release M. Séchard, and, if his plan succeeds, to give him thirty per cent of the profits,” the stout Cointet answered briskly. “But, monsieur,” objected Eve, “how should we live while the experiments were being made? My husband has endured the disgrace of imprisonment already; he may as well go back to prison, it makes no difference now, and we will pay our debts ourselves----” Petit-Claud laid a finger on his lips in warning.