"But
--you must let me--pay--your--yes, your passage to the Indies. Yes, I
wish to pay your passage because--d'ye see, my boy?--in valuing your
jewels I estimated only the weight of the gold; very likely the
workmanship is worth something. So let us settle it that I am to give
you fifteen hundred francs--in _livres_; Cruchot will lend them to me.
I haven't got a copper farthing here,--unless Perrotet, who is
behindhand with his rent, should pay up. By the bye, I'll go and see
him."
He took his hat, put on his gloves, and went out.
"Then you are really going?" said Eugenie to her cousin, with a sad
look, mingled with admiration.
"I must," he said, bowing his head.
For some days past, Charles's whole bearing, manners, and speech had
become those of a man who, in spite of his profound affliction, feels
the weight of immense obligations and has the strength to gather
courage from misfortune. He no longer repined, he became a man.
Eugenie never augured better of her cousin's character than when she
saw him come down in the plain black clothes which suited well with
his pale face and sombre countenance. On that day the two women put on
their own mourning, and all three assisted at a Requiem celebrated in
the parish church for the soul of the late Guillaume Grandet.
At the second breakfast Charles received letters from Paris and began
to read them.
"Well, cousin, are you satisfied with the management of your affairs?"
said Eugenie in a low voice.
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