“May I know, monsieur,” said la Peyrade, haughtily, not taking the chair which was offered to him, “what interest you have in meddling with my affairs?  I do not know you, and I may add that the place where I once saw you did not create an unconquerable desire in me to make your acquaintance.”

“Where have you seen me?” asked du Portail.

“In the apartment of a strumpet who called herself Madame de Godollo.”

“Where monsieur, consequently, went himself,” said the little old man, “and for a purpose much less disinterested than mine.”

“I have not come here,” said la Peyrade, “to bandy words with any one.  I have the right, monsieur, to a full explanation as to the meaning of your proceedings towards me.  I therefore request you not to delay them by a facetiousness to which, I assure you, I am not in the humor to listen.”

“Then, my dear fellow,” said du Portail, “sit down, for I am not in the humor to twist my neck by talking up at you.”

The words were reasonable, and they were said in a tone that showed the old gentleman was not likely to be frightened by grand airs.  La Peyrade therefore deferred to the wishes of his host, but he took care to do so with the worst grace possible.

“Monsieur Cerizet,” said du Portail, “a man of excellent standing in the world, and who has the honor to be one of your friends—­”

“I have nothing to do with that man now,” said la Peyrade, sharply, understanding the malicious meaning of the old man’s speech.

“Well, the time has been,” said du Portail, “when you saw him, at least, occasionally:  for instance, when you paid for his dinner at the Rocher de Cancale.  As I was saying, I charged the virtuous Monsieur Cerizet to sound you as to a marriage—­”

“Which I refused,” interrupted la Peyrade, “and which I now refuse again, more vehemently than ever.”

“That’s the question,” said the old man.  “I think, on the contrary, that you will accept it; and it is to talk over this affair with you that I have so long desired a meeting.”

“But this crazy girl that you are flinging at my head,” said la Peyrade, “what is she to you?  She can’t be your daughter, or you would put more decency into your hunt for a husband.”

“This young girl,” replied du Portail, “is the daughter of one of my friends who died about ten years ago; at his death I took her to live with me, and have given her all the care her sad condition needed.  Her fortune, which I have greatly increased, added to my own, which I intend to leave to her, will make her a very rich heiress.  I know that you are no enemy to handsome ‘dots,’ for you have sought them in various places,—­Thuillier’s house, for instance, or, to use your own expression, that of a strumpet whom you scarcely knew.  I have therefore supposed you would accept at my hands a very rich young woman, especially as her infirmity is declared by the best physicians to be curable; whereas you can never cure Monsieur and Mademoiselle Thuillier, the one of being a fool, the other of being a fury, any more than you could cure Madame Komorn of being a woman of very medium virtue and extremely giddy.”