The receiver started back.
“Ma foi!” he said, “I prefer waiting till tomorrow. What a proposition!”
“I thought, perhaps,” said Danglars with supreme impertinence, “that you had a deficiency to make up?”
“Indeed,” said the receiver.
“And if that were the case it would be worth while to make some sacrifice.”
“Thank you, no, sir.”
“Then it will be tomorrow.”
“Yes; but without fail.”
“Ah, you are laughing at me; send tomorrow at twelve, and the bank shall be notified.”
“I will come myself.”
“Better still, since it will afford me the pleasure of seeing you.” They shook hands.
“By the way,” said M. de Boville, “are you not going to the funeral of poor Mademoiselle de Villefort, which I met on my road here?”
“No,” said the banker; “I have appeared rather ridiculous since that affair of Benedetto, so I remain in the background.”
“Bah, you are wrong. How were you to blame in that affair?”
“Listen—when one bears an irreproachable name, as I do, one is rather sensitive.”
“Everybody pities you, sir; and, above all, Mademoiselle Danglars!”