“But this is not all,” resumed M. Costeclar.  “Saint Pavin, the editor of ‘The Financial Pilot,’ you know, is thought to be seriously compromised.  There was a rumor, at the close of the market, that a warrant either had been, or was about to be, issued against him.”

“And the Baron de Thaller?”

The employes of the office could not help admiring M. Costeclar’s extraordinary amount of patience.

“The baron,” he replied, “made his appearance at the bourse this afternoon, and was the object of a veritable ovation.”

“That is admirable!  And what did he say?”

“That the damage was already repaired.”

“Then the shares of the Mutual Credit must have advanced.”

“Unfortunately, not.  They did not go above one hundred and ten francs.”

“Were you not astonished at that?”

“Not much, because, you see, I am a business-man, I am; and I know pretty well how things work.  When they left M. de Thaller this morning, the stockholders of the Mutual Credit had a meeting; and they pledged themselves, upon honor, not to sell, so as not to break the market.  As soon as they had separated, each one said to himself, ’Since the others are going to keep their stock, like fools, I am going to sell mine.’  Now, as there were three or four hundred of them who argued the same way, the market was flooded with shares.”

Looking the brilliant financier straight in the eyes,

“And yourself?” interrupted M. de Tregars.

“I!” stammered M. Costeclar, so visibly agitated, that the clerks could not help laughing.

“Yes.  I wish to know if you have been more faithful to your word than the stockholders of whom you are speaking, and whether you have done as we had agreed.”

“Certainly; and, if you find me here—­”

But M. de Tregars, placing his own hand over his shoulder, stopped him short.

“I think I know what brought you here,” he uttered; “and in a few moments I shall have ascertained.”

“I swear to you.”

“Don’t swear.  If I am mistaken, so much the better for you.  If I am not mistaken, I’ll prove to you that it is dangerous to try any sharp game on me, though I am not a business-man.”

Meantime M. Latterman, seeing no customer coming to take the place of the one who had left, became impatient at last, and appeared upon the threshold of his private office.

He was a man still young, small, thick-set, and vulgar.  At the first glance, nothing of him could be seen but his abdomen,—­a big, great, and ponderous abdomen, seat of his thoughts, and tabernacle of his aspirations, over which dangled a double gold chain, loaded with trinkets.  Above an apoplectic neck, red as that of a turkey-cock, stood his little head, covered with coarse red hair, cut very short.  He wore a heavy beard, trimmed in the form of a fan.  His large, full-moon face was divided in two by a nose as flat as a Kalmuck’s, and illuminated by two small eyes, in which could be read the most thorough duplicity.