by me and passed by yourself.’ Then the governor, quite serious again, observed: ‘What a fool you are. Don’t you know, Monsieur Montelin, that one should always let one’s debts mount up, in order to offer a composition?’ ”
And Saint-Potin added, with a knowing shake of his head, “Eh! isn’t that worthy of Balzac?”
Duroy had not read Balzac, but he replied, “By Jove! yes.”
Then the reporter spoke of Madame Walter, an old goose; of Norbert de Varenne, an old failure; of Rival, a copy of Fervacques. Next he came to Forestier. “As to him, he has been lucky in marrying his wife, that is all.”
Duroy asked: “What is his wife, really?”
Saint-Potin rubbed his hands. “Oh! a deep one, a smart woman. She was the mistress of an old rake named Vaudrec, the Count de Vaudrec, who gave her a dowry and married her off.”
Duroy suddenly felt a cold shiver run through him, a tingling of the nerves, a longing to smack this gabbler on the face. But he merely interrupted him by asking:
“And your name is Saint-Potin?”
The other replied, simply enough:
“No, my name is Thomas. It is in the office that they have nicknamed me Saint-Potin.”
Duroy, as he paid for the drinks, observed: “But it seems to me that time is getting on, and that we have two noble foreigners to call on.”
Saint-Potin began to laugh. “You are still green. So you fancy I am going to ask the Chinese and the Hindu what they think of England? As if I