"I
hate to see a man oppressed. I see you oppressed, and I hold out my hand
to you by instinct. Besides, I am not too old yet, to remember my young
days. Your father sent me my first client. (It was on a question of
half an acre of vineyard that seldom bore any grapes.) Do I owe nothing
to your father's son? I owe him a debt of friendly obligation, and I pay
it to you. That's rather neatly expressed, I think," added Maitre Voigt,
in high good humour with himself. "Permit me to reward my own merit with
a pinch of snuff!"
Obenreizer dropped his eyes to the ground, as though he were not even
worthy to see the notary take snuff.
"Do me one last favour, sir," he said, when he raised his eyes. "Do not
act on impulse. Thus far, you have only a general knowledge of my
position. Hear the case for and against me, in its details, before you
take me into your office. Let my claim on your benevolence be recognised
by your sound reason as well as by your excellent heart. In _that_ case,
I may hold up my head against the bitterest of my enemies, and build
myself a new reputation on the ruins of the character I have lost."
"As you will," said Maitre Voigt. "You speak well, my son. You will be
a fine lawyer one of these days."
"The details are not many," pursued Obenreizer. "My troubles begin with
the accidental death of my late travelling companion, my lost dear friend
Mr. Vendale."
"Mr. Vendale," repeated the notary.
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