"And wherefore has comte Guillaume returned to Paris?"
inquired I, angrily.
"Because he is afraid."
"Afraid of what?" replied I.
"Of being murdered," answered comte Jean: "it is a most horrible
and authentic story. Imagine to yourself the dangers of his
situation: some brigands, who have a design on his life, have
written him an anonymous billet, in which they protest they will
certainly murder him, unless he deposits 50,000 livres in a certain
place. You may suppose his terror; money he had none, neither
was his credit sufficiently good to enable him to borrow any.
As a last and only chance, he threw himself into a carriage, and
hastened, tremblingly, to implore your assistance."
"And I am quite certain you will not withhold yours from him,"
answered I
"You are perfectly right," cried he, "but unfortunately just now
I have not a single crown I can call my own; so that it rests
with you alone, my dearest sister, to save the life of this
hapless comte du Barry."
"I am extremely distressed, my dear brother-in-law," replied I,
"that I am just as poor, and as unable to afford the necessary
aid as yourself; my purse is quite empty."
"Faith, my dear sister-in-law, I am not surprised at that if you
convert a china vase into a receptacle for your bank notes."
Saying this, he drew a bundle of notes from the hiding-place in
which I had deposited them.
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