Twelve hundred francs! How many days it would last! Had he not
heard there were clerks who hardly got that in a year?
Hector waited a long time, when one of the clerks, who was writing
at a desk, called out:
"Whose are the twelve hundred francs?"
The count stepped forward.
"Mine," said he.
"Your name?"
Hector hesitated. He would never give his name aloud in such a
place as this. He gave the first name that occurred to him.
"Durand."
"Where are your papers?"
"What papers?"
"A passport, a receipt for lodgings, a license to hunt--"
"I haven't any."
"Go for them, or bring two well-known witnesses."
"But--"
"There is no 'but.' The next--"
Hector was provoked by the clerk's abrupt manner.
"Well, then," said he, "give me back the jewelry."
The clerk looked at him jeeringly.
"Can't be done. No goods that are registered, can be returned
without proof of rightful possession." So saying, he went on with
his work. "One French shawl, thirty-five francs, whose is it?"
Hector meanwhile went out of the establishment. He had never
suffered so much, had never imagined that one could suffer so much.
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