“Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis,” said Peppino; “You have paid two louis in advance.”
“What? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf?”
“One hundred thousand francs,” repeated Peppino.
“But you only asked 100,000 francs for a fowl!”
“We have a fixed price for all our provisions. It signifies nothing whether you eat much or little—whether you have ten dishes or one—it is always the same price.”
“What, still keeping up this silly jest? My dear fellow, it is perfectly ridiculous—stupid! You had better tell me at once that you intend starving me to death.”
“Oh, dear, no, your excellency, unless you intend to commit suicide. Pay and eat.”
“And what am I to pay with, brute?” said Danglars, enraged. “Do you suppose I carry 100,000 francs in my pocket?”
“Your excellency has 5,050,000 francs in your pocket; that will be fifty fowls at 100,000 francs apiece, and half a fowl for the 50,000.”
Danglars shuddered. The bandage fell from his eyes, and he understood the joke, which he did not think quite so stupid as he had done just before.
“Come,” he said, “if I pay you the 100,000 francs, will you be satisfied, and allow me to eat at my ease?”
“Certainly,” said Peppino.
“But how can I pay them?”