“How many days would it require to make two studs exactly like them? You see there are two wanting.”
“Eight days, my Lord.”
“I will give you three thousand pistoles apiece if I can have them by the day after tomorrow.”
“My Lord, they shall be yours.”
“You are a jewel of a man, Mr. O’Reilly; but that is not all. These studs cannot be trusted to anybody; it must be done in the palace.”
“Impossible, my Lord! There is no one but myself can so execute them that one cannot tell the new from the old.”
“Therefore, my dear Mr. O’Reilly, you are my prisoner. And if you wish ever to leave my palace, you cannot; so make the best of it. Name to me such of your workmen as you need, and point out the tools they must bring.”
The goldsmith knew the duke. He knew all objection would be useless, and instantly determined how to act.
“May I be permitted to inform my wife?” said he.
“Oh, you may even see her if you like, my dear Mr. O’Reilly. Your captivity shall be mild, be assured; and as every inconvenience deserves its indemnification, here is, in addition to the price of the studs, an order for a thousand pistoles, to make you forget the annoyance I cause you.”
D’Artagnan could not get over the surprise created in him by this minister, who thus openhanded, sported with men and millions.
As to the goldsmith, he wrote to his wife, sending her the order for the thousand pistoles, and charging her to send him, in exchange, his