“Never,” said he, “in all the time that I have been with master, have I seen him in such a towering rage.  Only just listen!”

It was easy to hear the noise alluded to, mingled with the breaking of glass and the smashing of furniture.

“The master has been at this game for over an hour,” remarked the servant, “ever since his lawyer, M. Catenac, has left him.”

Andre, however, decided not to postpone his visit.  “I must see him in spite of everything; show me up,” said he.

With evident reluctance the domestic obeyed, and threw open the door of a room superbly furnished and decorated, in the centre of which stood M. Gandelu waving the leg of a chair frantically in his hand.  He was a man of sixty years of age, but did not look fifty, built like a Hercules, with huge hands and muscular limbs which seemed to fret under the restraint of his fashionable garments.  He had made his enormous fortune, of which he was considerably proud, by honest labor, and no one could say that he had not acted fairly throughout his whole career.  He was coarse and violent in his manner, but he had a generous heart and never refused aid to the deserving and needy.  He swore like a trooper, and his grammar was faulty; but for all that, his heart was in the right place, and he was a better man than many who boast of high birth and expensive education.

“What idiot is coming here to annoy me?” roared he, as soon as the door was opened.

“I have come by appointment,” answered Andre, and the contractor’s brow cleared as he saw who his visitor was.

“Ah, it is you, is it?  Take a seat; that is, if there is a sound chair left in the room.  I like you, for you have an honest face and don’t shirk hard work.  You needn’t color up, though; modesty is no fault.  Yes, there is something in you, and when you want a hundred thousand francs to go into business with, here it is ready for you; and had I a daughter, you should marry her, and I would build your house for you.”

“I thank you much,” said Andre; “but I have learned to depend entirely on myself.”

“True,” returned Gandelu, “you never knew your parents; you never knew what a kind father would do for his child.  Do you know my son?” asked he, suddenly turning upon Andre.

This question at once gave Andre the solution of the scene before him.  M. Gandelu was irritated at some folly that his son had committed.  For a moment Andre hesitated; he did not care to say anything that might revive the old man’s feeling of anger, and therefore merely replied that he had only met his son Gaston two or three times.

“Gaston,” cried the old man, with a bitter oath; “do not call him that.  Do you think it likely that old Nicholas Gandelu would ever have been ass enough to call his son Gaston?  He was called Peter, after his grandfather, but it wasn’t a good enough one for the young fool; he wanted a swell name, and Peter had too much the savor of hard work in it for my fine gentleman.  But that isn’t all; I could let that pass,” continued the old man.  “Pray have you seen his cards?  Over the name of Gaston de Gandelu is a count’s coronet.  He a count indeed! the son of a man who has carried a hod for years!”