.
"Pray, why?"

"She says there is too much in his nose; and like men who can't have
women, he is furious to--"

With a smile of incredulity, Pillerault tore a strip from a little book,
wrote down an amount, and signed the paper.

"There," said he, "there's a cheque on the Bank of France for a hundred
thousand francs for the Ragons and for me. Those poor folks have just
sold to your scoundrel of a du Tillet their fifteen shares in the mines
at Wortschin to make up the amount. Worthy people in trouble,--it
wrings my heart; and such good, noble souls, the very flower of the old
bourgeoisie! Their brother, Popinot, the judge, knows nothing about
it; they hid it from him so that he may not feel obliged to give up
his other works of charity. People who have worked, like me, for forty
years!"

"God grant that the Oil of Comagene may triumph!" cried Birotteau. "I
shall be doubly happy. Adieu; come and dine on Sunday with the Ragons,
Roguin, and Monsieur Claparon. We shall sign the papers the day after
to-morrow, for to-morrow is Friday, you know, and I shouldn't like--"

"You don't surely give in to such superstitions?"

"Uncle, I shall never believe that the day on which the Son of God was
put to death by man can be a fortunate day. Why, we ourselves stop all
business on the twenty-first of January."

"On Sunday, then," said Pillerault brusquely.

"If it were not for his political opinions," thought Birotteau as he
went down stairs, "I don't believe he would have his equal here below.
What are politics to him? He would be just as well off if he never
thought of them. His obstinacy in that direction only shows that there
can't be a perfect man."

"Three o'clock already!" cried Cesar, as he got back to "The Queen of
Roses."

"Monsieur, do you mean to take these securities?" asked Celestin,
showing him the notes of the umbrella-maker.

"Yes; at six per cent, without commission. Wife, get my dressing things
all ready; I am going to see Monsieur Vauquelin,--you know why. A white
cravat, of course."

Birotteau gave a few orders to the clerks. Not seeing Popinot, he
concluded that his future partner had gone to dress; and he went
gaily up to his room, where the Dresden Madonna, magnificently framed
according to his orders, awaited him.

"Hey! that's pretty," he said to his daughter.

"Papa, you must say beautiful, or people will laugh at you."

"Upon my word! a daughter who scolds her father! Well, well! To my
t