“He is neither petit nor muscadin, Monsieur Louvier,” replied Gandrin, peevishly; “and he will task your powers to get him thoroughly into your net. But I have persuaded him to meet you here. What day can you dine with me? I had better ask no one else.” “To-morrow I dine with my friend O-----, to meet the chiefs of the Opposition,” said M. Louvier, with a sort of careless rollicking pomposity. “Thursday with Pereire; Saturday I entertain at home. Say Friday. Your hour?” “Seven.” “Good! Show me those Rochebriant papers again; there is something I had forgotten to note. Never mind me. Go on with your work as if I were not here.” Louvier took up the papers, seated himself in an armchair by the fireplace, stretched out his legs, and read at his ease, but with a very rapid eye, as a practised lawyer skims through the technical forms of a case to fasten upon the marrow of it. “Ah! as I thought. The farms could not pay even the interest on my present mortgage; the forests come in for that. If a contractor for the yearly sale of the woods was bankrupt and did not pay, how could I get my interest? Answer me that, Gandrin.” “Certainly you must run the risk of that chance.” “Of course the chance occurs, and then I foreclose, seize,--Rochebriant and its seigneuries are mine.” As he spoke he laughed, not sardonically,--a jovial laugh,--and opened wide, to reshut as in a vice, the strong iron hand which had doubtless closed over many a man’s all. “Thanks. On Friday, seven o’clock.” He tossed the papers back on the bureau, nodded a royal nod, and strode forth imperiously as he had strode in. CHAPTER III. MEANWHILE the young Marquis pursued his way thoughtfully through the streets, and entered the Champs Elysees. Since we first, nay, since we last saw him, he is strikingly improved in outward appearances. He has unconsciously acquired more of the easy grace of the Parisian in gait and bearing. You would no longer detect the Provincial--perhaps, however, because he is now dressed, though very simply, in habiliments that belong to the style of the day. Rarely among the loungers in the Champs Elysees could be seen a finer form, a comelier face, an air of more unmistakable distinction. The eyes of many a passing fair one gazed on him, admiringly or coquettishly. But he was still so little the true Parisian that they got no smile, no look in return. He was wrapped in his own thoughts; was he thinking of M. Louvier? He had nearly gained the entrance of the Bois de Boulogne, when he was accosted by a voice behind, and turning round saw his friend Lemercier arm-in-arm with Graham Vane. “Bonjour, Alain,” said Lemercier, hooking his disengaged arm into Rochebriant’s. “I suspect we are going the same way.”