A CASTLE IN BRITTANY
Then she addressed the Curé.
"I pray you pen, ink and paper—here, on this table," she requested. Then as he complied with alacrity, she once more turned to her nephew, and pointing to the writing materials:
"Sit down and write, Amédé,” she commanded.
"Write what?" he queried.
"A confession, my nephew," said the old woman, with a shrill laugh. "A confession of those little peccadilloes of yours, which, unless I come to your rescue now, will land you for seven years in a penal settlement, if I mistake not. Eh, my fine nephew?"
"A confession?" retorted Amédé de Terhoven savagely. "Do you take me for a fool?"
"No, my nephew, I take you for a wise man—who understands that his dear aunt will not buy those interesting forgeries, perpetrated by Monsieur le Marquis Amédé de Terhoven, and offered to her by Rubinstein the money-lender, unless that confession is written and signed by you. Write Amédé, write that confession, my dear nephew, if you do not wish to see yourself in the dock on a charge of forging your aunt’s name to a bill for one hundred thousand francs."
Amédé muttered a curse between his teeth. Obviously the old woman's shaft had struck home. He knew himself to be in a hopeless plight. It appears that a money-lender had threatened to send the forged bills to Monsieur le Procureur de la République unless they were paid within twenty-four hours, and no
145
