"Eh! without doubt. My combination with the house of Durand failing, since your refusal would prevent my employing this knave Marcelange, as I desire (you do not wish to know my secrets, so I am forced to keep them), perhaps I should be compelled for certain reasons," added M. Pascal, pronouncing his words slowly, and looking at his victim with a sharp, cold eye, "I say, perhaps I should be compelled--and it would draw the blood from my heart--to demand the repayment of my capital, and withdraw my credit from you." "Oh, my God!" exclaimed Dutertre, clasping his hands and looking as pale as a ghost. "So you see, bad man, in what an atrocious position you put yourself. Force me to an action which, I repeat to you, would tear my soul--" "But, monsieur, a moment ago you assured me that--" "Zounds! my intention would be to let you keep this wretched capital as long as possible. You pay me the interest with remarkable punctuality, it was perfectly well placed, and, thanks to our terms of liquidation, you would have been free in ten years, and I should have made a good investment in doing you a service." "Really, monsieur," murmured Dutertre, overwhelmed, "such were your promises, if not written, at least verbal, and the generosity of your offer, the loyalty of your character, all gave me perfect confidence. God grant that I may not have to consider myself the most rash, the most stupid man, to have trusted your word!" "As to that, Dutertre, you can be at peace with yourself; at that period of commercial crisis, at least as terrible as it is to-day, you could not have found anywhere the capital that I offered you at such a moderate rate." "I know it, monsieur." "Then you can, and you must, indeed, by sheer force of necessity, accept the condition I put upon this loan." "But, monsieur," cried Dutertre, with inexpressible alarm, "I appeal to your honour! You have expressly promised me that--" "Eh, my God, yes, I promised you, saving the superior force of events; and unfortunately your refusal to give this poor little letter creates an event of stronger force which places me in the painful--the grievous necessity of asking you for repayment of my money." "But, monsieur, it is an unworthy action that you ask me to do, think of it." At this moment was heard the sweet ringing laughter of Sophie, who was approaching the parlour. "Ah, monsieur," said her husband, "not a word of this before my wife, because it may not be your final resolve. I hope that--" Charles Dutertre could not finish, because Sophie had entered the parlour. The unhappy man could only make a supplicating gesture to Pascal, who responded to it by a sign of sympathetic intelligence. CHAPTER VIII. When Sophie Dutertre entered the parlour, where were seated her husband and M. Pascal, the gracious countenance of the young woman, more flushed than usual, the light throbbing of her bosom, and her moist eyes, all testified to a recent fit of hilarious laughter.