ll--I have a great
uncle at Valle-Temple who is exceedingly ill. But--however, we will hold
that for the future. I owe you, my good Francine, wages for six
months--sixty francs, representing your service with me. I am going to
give you on account, at once, twenty francs, or rather something
immeasurably more valuable than that sum." He drew out the two slips of
paper, and regarded them with affection and regret. "Here are two
tickets for the Grand Lottery of France, which will be drawn this month,
ten francs a ticket. I had to go to Chantreuil to get them; number
77,707 and number 200,013. Take them--they are yours."

"But, M'sieur le Comte," said Francine, looking stupidly at the tickets
she had passively received. "It's--it's good round pieces of silver I
need."

"Francine," cried de Bonzag, in amazed indignation, "do you realize
that I probably have given you a fortune--and that I am absolving you of
all division of it with me!"

"But, M'sieur--"

"That there are one hundred and forty-five numbers that will draw
prizes."

"Yes, M'sieur le Comte; but--"

"That there is a prize of one quarter of a million, one third of a
million--"

"All the same--"

"That the second prize is for one-half a million, and the first prize
for one round million francs."

"M'sieur says?" said Francine, whose eyes began to open.

"One hundred and forty-five chances, and the lowest is for a hundred
francs. You think that isn't a sacrifice, eh?"

"Well, Monsieur le Comte," Francine said at last with a sigh, "I'll take
them for twenty francs. It's not good round silver, and there's my
little girl--"

"Enough!" exclaimed de Bonzag, dismissing her with an angry gesture. "I
am making you an heiress, and you have no gratitude! Leave me--and send
hither Andoche."

He watched the bulky figure waddle off, sunk back in his chair, and
repeated with profound dejection; "No gratitude! There, it's done: this
time certainly I have thrown away a quarter of a million at the
lowest!"

Presently Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier, the brass helmet under his arm,
appeared at the top of the steps, smiling and thirsty, with covetous
eyes fastened on the broken table, at the carafe containing curacoa that
was white and "Triple-Sec."

"Ah, it's you, Andoche," said the Comte, finally, drawn from his
abstraction by a succession of rapid bows. He took two full-hearted
sighs, pushed the carafe slightly in the direction of the
Sapeur-Pompier, and added: "