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know that you don’t stick at money, and a benevolent man
like yourself can certainly give two hundred thousand
francs to the father of a family who is out of luck. Certainly,
you are reasonable, too; you haven’t imagined that I should
take all the trouble I have to-day and organized this affair
this evening, which has been labor well bestowed, in the
opinion of these gentlemen, merely to wind up by asking
you for enough to go and drink red wine at fifteen sous and
eat veal at Desnoyer’s. Two hundred thousand francs—it’s
surely worth all that. This trifle once out of your pocket, I
guarantee you that that’s the end of the matter, and that you
have no further demands to fear. You will say to me: ‘But I
haven’t two hundred thousand francs about me.’ Oh! I’m
not extortionate. I don’t demand that. I only ask one thing
of you. Have the goodness to write what I am about to dic-
tate to you.’
Here Thenardier paused; then he added, emphasizing his
words, and casting a smile in the direction of the brazier:—
‘I warn you that I shall not admit that you don’t know
how to write.’
A grand inquisitor might have envied that smile.
Thenardier pushed the table close to M. Leblanc, and
took an inkstand, a pen, and a sheet of paper from the draw-
er which he left half open, and in which gleamed the long
blade of the knife.
He placed the sheet of paper before M. Leblanc.
‘Write,’ said he.
The prisoner spoke at last.
‘How do you expect me to write? I am bound.’