extent of his power, knew how to drain his mother’s money-box and take from his father’s purse whilst pretending to both authors of his being that he was only applying to the one. Desire, who, at Nemours bore a part infinitely superior to that of a royal prince in his father’s capital, had wished to gratify all his caprices in Paris as he had gratified them in his own small town, and, every year, he had there spent more than twelve thousand francs. But, for this sum, he had also acquired ideas that would never have come to him in Nemours; he had sloughed off the provincial skin, he had understood the power of money and foresaw a means of preferment in the bench. During this last year, he had spent an additional ten thousand francs, by forming connections with artists, with journalists and their mistresses. A somewhat disquieting confidential letter to the postmaster, whose help his son had asked in a marriage, would, at a pinch, have explained his mounting guard; but Mother Minoret-Levrault, busy preparing a sumptuous luncheon to celebrate the triumph and the return of the licentiate in law, had sent her husband on the road, bidding him ride on if he did not see the diligence. The coach which was to bring this only son, usually arrives at Nemours about five o’clock in the morning, and nine o’clock was striking!
What could cause such delay? Had there been an upset? Was Désiré alive? Had he merely a broken leg?
Three thundering cracks of a whip explode and
