“Who is that?” asked Monpavon, noticing the unfamiliar handwriting and the Irishman’s nervous excitement. “Ah, doctor, if you want to read them all, we shall never have finished.” Jenkins, his cheeks flushed, the two letters in his hand, was consumed by a desire to carry them away, to pore over them at his ease, to martyrize himself with delight by reading them, perhaps also to forge out of this correspondence a weapon for himself against the imprudent woman who had signed her name. But the rigorous correctness of the marquis made him afraid. How could he distract his attention--get him away? The opportunity occurred of its own accord. Among the letters, a tiny page written in a senile and shaky hand, caught the attention of the charlatan, who said with an ingenuous air: “Oh, oh! here is something that does not look much like a _billet-doux. ‘Mon Duc, to the rescue--I am sinking! The Court of Exchequer has once more stuck its nose into my affairs.’_” “What are you reading there?” exclaimed Monpavon abruptly, snatching the letter from his hands. And immediately, thanks to Mora’s negligence in thus allowing such private letters to lie about, the terrible situation in which he would be left by the death of his protector returned to his mind. In his grief, he had not yet given it a thought. He told himself that in the midst of all his preparations for his departure, the duke might quite possibly overlook him; and, leaving Jenkins to complete the drowning of Don Juan’s casket by himself, he returned precipitately in the direction of the bed-chamber. Just as he was on the point of entering, the sound of a discussion held him back behind the lowered door-curtain. It was Louis’s voice, tearful like that of a beggar in a church-porch, trying to move the duke to pity for his distress, and asking permission to take certain bundles of bank-notes that lay in a drawer. Oh, how hoarse, utterly wearied, hardly intelligible the answer, in which there could be detected the effort of the sick man to turn over in his bed, to bring back his vision from a far-off distance already half in sight: “Yes, yes; take them. But for God’s sake, let me sleep--let me sleep!” Drawers opened, closed again, a short and panting breath. Monpavon heard no more of what was going on, and retraced his steps without entering. The ferocious rapacity of his servant had set his pride upon its guard. Anything rather than degradation to such a point as that.