“Bah,” said Caderousse, “when you have access to countless stores.”
One would have said Andrea anticipated his companion’s words, so did his eye flash like lightning, but it was but for a moment.
“True,” he replied, “and my protector is very kind.”
“That dear protector,” said Caderousse; “and how much does he give you monthly?”
“Five thousand francs.”
“As many thousands as you give me hundreds! Truly, it is only bastards who are thus fortunate. Five thousand francs per month! What the devil can you do with all that?”
“Oh, it is no trouble to spend that; and I am like you, I want capital.”
“Capital?—yes—I understand—everyone would like capital.”
“Well, and I shall get it.”
“Who will give it to you—your prince?”
“Yes, my prince. But unfortunately I must wait.”
“You must wait for what?” asked Caderousse.
“For his death.”
“The death of your prince?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“Because he has made his will in my favor.”
“Indeed?”
“On my honor.”
“For how much?”
“For five hundred thousand.”
“Only that? It’s little enough.”
“But so it is.”
“No, it cannot be!”
“Are you my friend, Caderousse?”
“Yes, in life or death.”
“Well, I will tell you a secret.”
“What is it?”
“But remember——”
“Ah! pardieu! mute as a carp.”
“Well, I think——”
Andrea stopped and looked around.
“You think? Do not fear; pardieu! we are alone.”
“I think I have discovered my father.”
“Your true father?”
“Yes.”
“Not old Cavalcanti?”
“No, for he has gone again; the true one, as you say.”