“My dear fellow,” said Fortinbras, flicking the coin an inch towards Martin, “if you so desire it, I will deal with you in my professional capacity. But as in the case of the solicitor or the doctor it would be unprofessional to accept fees for the settlement of his own family affairs, so, in this matter, I am unable to accept a fee from you. Bigourdin, whose character you have had an intimate opportunity of judging, has offered you a share in his business. As a lawyer and a man of the world, I say unhesitatingly, ‘Accept it,’ As long as Brantôme lasts—and there are no signs of it perishing,—commercial travellers and tourists will visit it and go to the Hôtel des Grottes. And as long as European civilisation lasts, it will demand the gastronomic delicacies of truffles, _pâté de foie gras_, Périgord pie, stuffed quails and compôte of currants which now find their way from the _fabrique_ of the hotel to Calcutta, Moscow, San Francisco, Bayswater and Buenos Ayres. As a _marchand de bonheur_, as you are pleased to call me, I also unhesitatingly affirm that in your acceptance you will find true happiness.” He sipped his cassis and water, and leaned back on the plush-covered seat. Martin pushed the five-franc piece three or four inches towards Fortinbras. “It isn’t such a simple, straightforward matter as you seem to imagine,” said Martin. “Otherwise I should have closed with Bigourdin’s generous offer straight away. I’m not a fool. And I’m devotedly attached to Bigourdin, who, for no reason that I can see, save his own goodness of heart, has treated me like a brother. I haven’t come to consult you as a man of business at all. And as for conscientious scruples about Bigourdin being a relative of yours, please put them away.” He pushed the coin another inch. “It is solely as _marchand de bonheur_, in the greatest crisis of my life, when I’m torn to pieces by all sorts of conflicting emotions, that I want to consult you. There are complications you know nothing about.” “Complications?” Fortinbras stretched out a benign hand. “Is it possible that there is some little—what shall we say?—sentiment?” He smiled, seeing the young man’s love for Félise barring his candid way. “You can be frank with me.” “It’s a damned sight more than sentiment,” cried Martin with unprecedented explosiveness. “Read this.” He dragged from his pocket a dirty, creased and crumpled letter and threw it across the table. Fortinbras adjusted his glasses and read the imp-inspired message. He took off his glasses and handed back the letter. His face became impassive and he regarded Martin with expressionless, tired, blue eyes. “Your promise. What was that?” “To go to Egypt.” “Why should you go to Egypt to meet Lucille Merriton?” Martin threw up both hands in a wide gesture. “Can’t you see? I’m mad to go to Egypt, or Cape Horn, or Hell, to meet her. But I’ve enough sanity left to come here and consult you.”