“How—how much do you want?”
“Un million de francs,” she said, dismissing this bagatelle airily. “—For ze Américains vat ees dat? Pouf! Nozzing! Mais pour les Français—ah!” she said sadly, “for ze French eet ees too motch. Un millionaire américain—he see your story—he say,’Ve cannot let zis grand vork die’—he write vun cheque out for ze whole amount—and zen,” her smile of satisfaction deepened, “he send to me, eh?—He meck out cheque to Marquise—he never miss eet—and he send to me.” For a moment she was silent, smiling triumphantly at him. When she spoke again, she bent towards him, her voice became low, confiding, craftily conspiratorial—“And I tell you vat I do…. You write ze piece and get for me ze monnee… and I give you a fourt’—twanty-five per cent—non?”
In a moment, as he continued to stare at her with an expression of gape-mouthed astonishment, she straightened, with an air of satisfied finality, nodded her head, and then said with businesslike decision:
“Bon. Eet ees settled zen.” She rose decisively from the table, and her guests followed her—“You come vit me,” she said, as she led the way out of the dining-room, “and I give you—vat you say?—ze fects.”
She was already gone, before he could blurt out a few words of bewildered protest; the Countess was at his side, prodding him sharply with a skinny finger and muttering in a tone of reproachful entreaty:
“Go on, my dear! Go on! And you should ask more questions! Don’t sit there saying nothing. It will make a good impression. And use your little book more often,” the Countess whispered cunningly. “You should write more in it when she speaks to you.”
“Now you see here,” he burst out furiously, “I’m not going to write down anything. I’m tired of this foolishness—I’m not going to be a party any longer to your damned schemes or for this woman’s either. I’m going to tell her once and for all that I’ll write no article—not for The Times nor any place else!”
“Oh, my boy,” the old woman whispered imploringly. “You wouldn’t do that! Please don’t say a thing like that, I beg of you!… Think what it means to me,” she whispered—“I am so poor, so miserable—for years I have waited for an opportunity to see this woman—it means so much to me, so little to you. Please be polite, my dear—it’s only for a little time. You’ll be going soon. What can it matter to you? She has her schemes like everybody else… keep silent if you feel you must, but be polite to her, for God’s sake; pretend to listen—don’t ruin everything for me now.”
