M. Pascal was speaking seriously. Dutertre could no longer doubt it. He then remembered the words of his father, the antipathy of his little girl, and, seized with a vague dread, he replied, in a constrained voice: "So, monsieur, you forget the grave responsibility which would rest upon me if I did what you desire." "Eh, my God! my brave Dutertre, if we only asked easy things of our friends!" "You ask of me an impossible thing, monsieur." "So, then, you refuse to do it for me, do you?" "M. Pascal," said Dutertre, with an accent at the same time firm and full of emotion, "I owe you everything. There is not a day that I, my wife, and my father do not recall the fact that, one year ago, without your unexpected succour, our own ruin, and the ruin of many other people, would have been inevitable. All that gratitude can inspire of respect and affection we feel for you. Every possible proof of devotion we are ready to give you with pleasure, with happiness, but--" "One word more, and you will understand me," interrupted M. Pascal. "Since I must tell you, Dutertre, I have a special interest in having some one who belongs to me--entirely to me, you understand, entirely mine--in the business house of Durand. Now, you can comprehend that, holding Marcelange by this letter which you will give me for him, and by what I know of his antecedents, I can make him my creature, my blind instrument. This is entirely between us, my dear Dutertre, and, counting on your absolute discretion, I will go further even, and I will tell you that--" "Not a word more on this subject, sir, I beg," exclaimed Dutertre, with increasing surprise and distress, for up to that time he had believed Pascal to be a man of incorruptible integrity. "Not a word more. There are secrets whose confidence one does not wish to accept." "Why?" "Because they might become very embarrassing, sir." "Really! The confidences of an old friend can become an annoyance! Very well, I will keep them. Then, give me this letter without any more explanations." "I repeat to you, sir, that it is impossible for me to do so." M. Pascal bit his lips and unconsciously knit his eyebrows; as surprised as he was angry at the refusal of Dutertre, he could scarcely believe that a man who was dependent upon him could have the audacity to oppose his will, or the courage to sacrifice the present and the future to a scruple of honour. However, as he had a special interest in this letter, he replied, with a tone of affectionate reproach: "What! You refuse me that, my dear Dutertre,--refuse me, your friend?" "I refuse you above all,--you who have had faith enough in my incorruptible honesty to advance for me, without even knowing me, a considerable amount."