“Much more so than you think. Only you know we live in the nineteenth century, and we cannot make Providence interpose in the form of a dagger or poison so easily as in former days. Arsenic and verdigris are sometimes used, but it does not answer. Scientific people have had the meanness to invent tests by which poison can be detected even when there is none.” “You are making fun of me,” said Cayrol, laughing. “I! No. Come, do you wish to do a good stroke of business? Find a man who will consent to rid Madame Desvarennes of her son-in-law. If he succeed, ask Madame Desvarennes for a million francs. I will pay it at only twenty-five francs’ discount, if you like!” Cayrol was thoughtful. Marechal continued: “You have known the house a long time, how is it you don’t understand the mistress better? I tell you, and remember this: between Madame Desvarennes and the Prince there is a mortal hatred. One of the two will destroy the other. Which? Betting is open.” “But what must I do? The Prince relies on me--” “Go and tell him not to do so any longer.” “Faith, no! I would rather he came to my office. I should be more at ease. Adieu, Marechal.” “Adieu, Monsieur Cayrol. But on whom will you bet?” “Before I venture I should like to know on whose side the Princess is.” “Ah, dangler! You think too much of the women! Some day you will be let in through that failing of yours!” Cayrol smiled conceitedly, and went away. Marechal sat down at his desk, and took out a sheet of paper. “I must tell Pierre that everything is going on well here,” he murmured. “If he knew what was taking place he would soon be back, and might be guilty of some foolery or other.” So he commenced writing. BOOK 4. CHAPTER XVIII. THE UNIVERSAL CREDIT COMPANY The banking-house of Cayrol had not a very imposing appearance. It was a narrow two-storied building, the front blackened by time. There was a carriage gateway, on the right-hand side of which was the entrance to the offices. The stairs leading to the first floor were covered by a well-worn carpet. Here was a long corridor into which the different offices opened. On their glass doors might be read: “Payments of dividends.” “Accounts.” “Foreign correspondence.” “General office.” Cayrol’s own room was quite at the end, and communicated with his private apartments. Everything breathed of simplicity and honesty. Cayrol had never tried to throw dust into people’s eyes. He had started modestly when opening the bank; his business had increased, but his habits had remained the same. It was not a difficult matter to obtain an interview, even by people not known to him. They sent in their cards, and were admitted to his sanctum.