"Your father has not twenty thousand livres a year for nothing, Monsienr Malicorne."
"A provincial fortune. Mademoiselle de Montalais."
"Your father is not in the secrets of Monsieur le Prince for nothing."
"An advantage which is confined to lending monseigneur money."
"In a word, you are not the most cunning young fellow in the province for nothing."
"You flatter me!"
"Who, I?"
"Yes, you."
"How so?"
"Since I maintain that I have no credit, and you maintain I have."
"Well, then, my commission?"
"Well, your commission?"
"Shall I have it, or shall I not?"
"You shall have it."
"Ay, but when?"
"When you like."
"Where is it, then?"
"In my pocket."
"How! in your pocket?"
"Yes." And, with a smile, Malicorne drew from his pocket a letter, upon which Montalais seized as a prey, and which she read with avidity. As she read, her face brightened.
"Malicorne," cried she, after having read it, "in truth, you are a good lad."
"What for, mademoiselle?"
"Because you might have been paid for this commission, and you have not." And she burst into a loud laugh, thinking to put the clerk out of countenance; but Malicorne sustained the attack bravely.
"I do not understand you," said he. It was now Montalais who was disconcerted in her turn. "I have declared my sentiments to you," continued Malicorne. "You have told me three times, laughing all the while, that you did not love me; you have embraced me once without laughing, and that is all I want."
"All?" said the proud and coquettish Montalais, in a tone through which wounded pride was visible.
"Absolutely all, mademoiselle," replied Malicorne.
"Ah!"
