ncs."

"Are the chimney-bricks coming down on my head?" exclaimed du Tillet,
bursting into a laugh.

Cesar, misled by the luxury about him, fancied it was the laugh of a man
to whom the sum was a mere trifle; he breathed again. Du Tillet rang the
bell.

"Send the cashier to me."

"He has not come, monsieur," said the valet.

"These fellows take advantage of me! It is half-past eight o'clock, and
he ought to have done a million francs' worth of business by this time."

Five minutes later Monsieur Legras came in.

"How much have we in the desk?"

"Only twenty thousand francs. Monsieur gave orders to buy into the Funds
to the amount of thirty thousand francs cash, payable on the 15th."

"That's true; I am half-asleep still."

The cashier gave Birotteau a suspicious look as he left the room.

"If truth were banished from this earth, she would leave her last word
with a cashier," said du Tillet. "Haven't you some interest in this
little Popinot, who has set up for himself?" he added, after a dreadful
pause, in which the sweat rolled in drops from Cesar's brow.

"Yes," he answered, naively. "Do you think you could discount his
signature for a large amount?"

"Bring me his acceptances for fifty thousand francs, and I will get them
discounted for you at a reasonable rate by old Gobseck, who is very easy
to deal with when he has funds to invest; and he has some now."

Birotteau went home broken-hearted, not perceiving that the bankers were
tossing him from one to the other like a shuttle-cock; but Constance had
already guessed that credit was unattainable. If three bankers refused
it, it was very certain that they had inquired of each other about so
prominent a man as a deputy-mayor; and there was, consequently, no hope
from the Bank of France.

"Try to renew your notes," she said; "go and see Monsieur Claparon, your
copartner, and all the others to whom you gave notes for the 15th, and
ask them to renew. It will be time enough to go to the money-lenders
with Popinot's paper if that fails."

"To-morrow is the 13th," said Birotteau, completely crushed.

In the language of his own prospectus, he enjoyed a sanguine
temperament, which was subject to an enormous waste through emotions and
the pressure of thought, and imperatively demanded sleep to repair it.
Cesarine took her father into the salon and played to him "Rousseau's
Dream,"--a pretty piece of music by Herold; while Constance sat sewing
beside him. The