“Well, Claparon, the bank wants a hundred thousand francs of you, and it is four o’clock; the thing is known, and it is too late to arrange your little failure comfortably,” said Castanier.

“Sir!”

“Speak lower,” the cashier went on.  “How if I were to propose a piece of business that would bring you in as much money as you require?”

“It would not discharge my liabilities; every business that I ever heard of wants a little time to simmer in.”

“I know of something that will set you straight in a moment,” answered Castanier; “but first you would have to—­”

“Do what?”

“Sell your share of Paradise.  It is a matter of business like anything else, isn’t it?  We all hold shares in the great Speculation of Eternity.”

“I tell you this,” said Claparon angrily, “that I am just the man to lend you a slap in the face.  When a man is in trouble, it is no time to play silly jokes on him.”

“I am talking seriously,” said Castanier, and he drew a bundle of notes from his pocket.

“In the first place,” said Claparon, “I am not going to sell my soul to the Devil for a trifle.  I want five hundred thousand francs before I strike—­”

“Who talks of stinting you?” asked Castanier, cutting him short.  “You should have more gold than you could stow in the cellars of the Bank of France.”

He held out a handful of notes.  That decided Claparon.

“Done,” he cried; “but how is the bargain to be made?”

“Let us go over yonder, no one is standing there,” said Castanier, pointing to a corner of the court.

Claparon and his tempter exchanged a few words, with their faces turned to the wall.  None of the onlookers guessed the nature of this by-play, though their curiosity was keenly excited by the strange gestures of the two contracting parties.  When Castanier returned, there was a sudden outburst of amazed exclamation.  As in the Assembly where the least event immediately attracts attention, all faces were turned to the two men who had caused the sensation, and a shiver passed through all beholders at the change that had taken place in them.

The men who form the moving crowd that fills the Stock Exchange are soon known to each other by sight.  They watch each other like players round a card table.  Some shrewd observers can tell how a man will play and the condition of his exchequer from a survey of his face; and the Stock Exchange is simply a vast card table.  Everyone, therefore, had noticed Claparon and Castanier.  The latter (like the Irishman before him[1]) had been muscular and powerful, his eyes were full of light, his color high.  The dignity and power in his face had struck awe into them all; they wondered how old Castanier had come by it; and now they beheld Castanier divested of his power, shrunken, wrinkled, aged, and feeble.  He had drawn Claparon out of the crowd with the energy of a sick man in a fever fit; he had looked like an