"Come, come," said he, holding his head high; "if I have talked like a fool and an ingrate, money is a beautiful thing." Then stopping to reflect awhile he continued: "Let us see now,--calmness by all means,--we will undertake the thing well and slowly. My spy will know this evening where the archduke's mistress lives, at least if she lives in the palace, which is not probable. Let me find out where she lives," added he, stroking his chin with a meditative air. "Zounds, I will send to her that old milliner, Madame Doucet. It is the old way and always the best with these actresses and such women, for, after all, the mistress of a prince is no better. She came, her head uncovered, to throw herself unceremoniously into our conversation; she had no discretion to protect. So I cannot have a better go-between, a more suitable one, than old Mother Doucet. I will write to her at once." M. Pascal was occupied in writing at his desk when his valet entered. "What is it?" asked the financier, abruptly. "I did not ring." "Monsieur, it is a lady." "I have no time." "She has come for a letter of credit." "Let her go to the counting-room." "This lady wishes to speak to M. Pascal." "Impossible. Let her go to the counting-room." The valet went out. Pascal continued to write, but at the end of a few moments the servant returned. "When will you finish? What is it now?" "Monsieur, this lady who--" "Ah, so you are making a jest, are you? I told you to send her to the counting-room!" "This lady has given me a card and asked me to tell monsieur to read what she has just written at the bottom." "Well, hand it here. It is insupportable!" said Pascal taking the card, where he read the following: * * * * * "_The Marquise de Miranda._" * * * * * Below the name was written with a pencil: * * * * * "She had the honour of meeting M. Pascal yesterday at the Élysée-Bourbon, with his Highness, the Archduke Leopold." * * * * * If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of M. Pascal he could not have been more astonished. He could not believe his eyes, and read the card a second time soliloquising: "The Marquise de Miranda! She is a marquise, then? Bah! she is a marquise as Lola Montès is a countess--petticoat nobility; but at any rate it is she. She here! in my house at the very moment I was taxing my wits to contrive a meeting with her. Ah, Pascal, my friend Pascal, your star of gold, for a moment hidden, shines at last in all its brilliancy. And she comes here under the pretext of a letter of credit. Come, come, Pascal, my friend, keep calm; one does not find such an opportunity twice in his life. Think now, if you are sly, you can take the mistress of the prince and the wife of the blond youth in the same net. Ah, how my heart beats! I am sure I most look pale."