"Very well. Let us go."
Réginard burst into Sacqueville-Danglars's amphitheatre, where the banker was entertaining Andurillo de' Pseudonimi in an evening of banknote-counting.
"You forget yourself strangely, forcing your way into my domicile like Bombadile at the seventeenth soirée of Saroumand," said Sacqueville-Danglars. "What do you wish, finally?"
"I wish," said Réginard, completely ignoring Pseudonimi, "to propose a rendezvous in a little corner, where we can meet without interruption until one of us dies and goes where scandals matter no more. You can invite your future son-in-law if you wish; he is almost part of the family."
"When I see an enraged wargue in my path, monsieur," replied Sacqueville-Danglars, pale with anger and fear, "I kill it, and far from feeling culpable, consider myself to have conferred a benefit upon society by ridding it of a cheap theatrical effect. Is it then my fault your father is dishonoured? Did I counsel him to sell out Ala-Pallando?"
"Silence!" cried Réginard hoarsely. "Who wrote to Quirithe-Oungallant for information on my father?"
