Beaumarchef withdrew, but almost immediately reappeared.

“Sir,” said he, “a servant from M. de Croisenois is here with a note.”

“Send the man in,” said Mascarin.

The domestic was irreproachably dressed, and looked what he was, the servant of a nobleman.

He had something the appearance of an Englishman, with a high collar, reaching almost to his ears.  His face was clean shaved, and of a ruddy hue.  His coat was evidently the work of a London tailor, and his appearance was as stiff as though carved out of wood.  Indeed, he looked like a very perfect piece of mechanism.

“My master,” said he, “desired me to give this note into your own hands.”

Under cover of breaking the seal, Mascarin viewed this model servant attentively.  He was a stranger to him, for he had never supplied Croisenois with a domestic.

“It seems, my good fellow,” said he, “that your master was up earlier than usual this morning?”

The man frowned a little at this familiar address, and then slowly replied,—­

“When I took service with the Marquis, he agreed to give me fifteen louis over my wages for the privilege of calling me ‘a good fellow,’ but I permit no one to do so gratis.  I think that my master is still asleep,” continued the man solemnly.  “He wrote the note on his return from the club.”

“Is there any reply.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good; then wait a little.”

And Mascarin, opening the note, read the following: 

“MY DEAR FRIEND,—­

“Baccarat has served me an ugly turn, and in addition to all my ready cash I have given an I.O.U. for three thousand francs.  To save my credit I must have this by twelve to-morrow.”

“His credit,” said Mascarin.  “His credit!  That is a fine joke indeed.”  The servant stood up stiffly erect, as one seeming to take no notice, and the agent continued reading the letter.

“Am I wrong in looking to you for this trifle?  I do not think so.  Indeed, I have an idea that you will send me a hundred and fifty louis over and above, so that I may not be left without a coin in my pocket.  How goes the great affair?  I await your decision on the brink of a precipice.

“Yours devotedly,

“HENRY DE CROISENOIS.”

“And so,” growled Mascarin, “he has flung away five thousand francs, and asks me to find it for him in my coffers.  Ah, you fool, if I did not want the grand name that you have inherited from your ancestors, a name that you daily bespatter and soil, you might whistle for your five thousand francs.”

However, as Croisenois was absolutely necessary to him, Mascarin slowly took from his safe five notes of a thousand francs each, and handed them to the man.

“Do you want a receipt?” asked the man.

“No; this letter is sufficient, but wait a bit;” and Mascarin, with an eye to the future, drew a twenty franc piece from his pocket, and placing it on the table, said in his most honeyed accents,—­