“Ta-ta-ta!  Don’t talk to me about gratitude!” said Maitre Voigt.  “I hate to see a man oppressed.  I see you oppressed, and I hold out my hand to you by instinct.  Besides, I am not too old yet, to remember my young days.  Your father sent me my first client. (It was on a question of half an acre of vineyard that seldom bore any grapes.) Do I owe nothing to your father’s son?  I owe him a debt of friendly obligation, and I pay it to you.  That’s rather neatly expressed, I think,” added Maitre Voigt, in high good humour with himself.  “Permit me to reward my own merit with a pinch of snuff!”

Obenreizer dropped his eyes to the ground, as though he were not even worthy to see the notary take snuff.

“Do me one last favour, sir,” he said, when he raised his eyes.  “Do not act on impulse.  Thus far, you have only a general knowledge of my position.  Hear the case for and against me, in its details, before you take me into your office.  Let my claim on your benevolence be recognised by your sound reason as well as by your excellent heart.  In that case, I may hold up my head against the bitterest of my enemies, and build myself a new reputation on the ruins of the character I have lost.”

“As you will,” said Maitre Voigt.  “You speak well, my son.  You will be a fine lawyer one of these days.”

“The details are not many,” pursued Obenreizer.  “My troubles begin with the accidental death of my late travelling companion, my lost dear friend Mr. Vendale.”

“Mr. Vendale,” repeated the notary.  “Just so.  I have heard and read of the name, several times within these two months.  The name of the unfortunate English gentleman who was killed on the Simplon.  When you got that scar upon your cheek and neck.”

“—­From my own knife,” said Obenreizer, touching what must have been an ugly gash at the time of its infliction.

“From your own knife,” assented the notary, “and in trying to save him.  Good, good, good.  That was very good.  Vendale.  Yes.  I have several times, lately, thought it droll that I should once have had a client of that name.”

“But the world, sir,” returned Obenreizer, “is so small!” Nevertheless he made a mental note that the notary had once had a client of that name.

“As I was saying, sir, the death of that dear travelling comrade begins my troubles.  What follows?  I save myself.  I go down to Milan.  I am received with coldness by Defresnier and Company.  Shortly afterwards, I am discharged by Defresnier and Company.  Why?  They give no reason why.  I ask, do they assail my honour?  No answer.  I ask, what is the imputation against me?  No answer.  I ask, where are their proofs against me?  No answer.  I ask, what am I to think?  The reply is, ’M.  Obenreizer is free to think what he will.  What M. Obenreizer thinks, is of no importance to Defresnier and Company.’  And that is all.”