the individual temperament has placed the vital spark.  Feeble beings have the colic.  Napoleon slept.  Before assailing the confidence of a life-long friendship, and breaking down all the barriers of pride and self-assurance, an honorable man must needs feel in his heart—­and feel it more than once —­the spur of that cruel rider, necessity.  Thus it happened that Birotteau had been goaded for two days before he could bring himself to seek his uncle; it was, indeed, only family reasons which finally decided him to do so.  In any state of the case, it was his duty to explain his position to the severe old ironmonger, his wife’s uncle.  Nevertheless, as he reached the house he felt that inward faintness which a child feels when taken to a dentist’s; but this shrinking of the heart involved the whole of his life, past, present, and to come, —­it was not the fugitive pain of a moment.  He went slowly up the stairs.

II

The old man was reading the “Constitutionnel” in his chimney-corner, before a little round table on which stood his frugal breakfast,—­a roll, some butter, a plate of Brie cheese, and a cup of coffee.

“Here is true wisdom,” thought Birotteau, envying his uncle’s life.

“Well!” said Pillerault, taking off his spectacles, “I heard at the cafe David last night about Roguin’s affair, and the assassination of his mistress, la belle Hollandaise.  I hope, as we desire to be actual owners of the property, that you obtained Claparon’s receipt for the money.”

“Alas! uncle, no.  The trouble is just there,—­you have put your finger upon the sore.”

“Good God! you are ruined!” cried Pillerault, letting fall his newspaper, which Birotteau picked up, though it was the “Constitutionnel.”

Pillerault was so violently roused by his reflections that his face —­like the image on a medal and of the same stern character—­took a deep bronze tone, such as the metal itself takes under the oscillating tool of a coiner; he remained motionless, gazing through the window-panes at the opposite wall, but seeing nothing,—­listening, however, to Birotteau.  Evidently he heard and judged, and weighed the pros and cons with the inflexibility of a Minos who had crossed the Styx of commerce when he quitted the Quai des Morfondus for his little third storey.

“Well, uncle?” said Birotteau, who waited for an answer, after closing what he had to say with an entreaty that Pillerault would sell sixty thousand francs out of the Funds.

“Well, my poor nephew, I cannot do it; you are too heavily involved.  The Ragons and I each lose our fifty thousand francs.  Those worthy people have, by my advice, sold their shares in the mines of Wortschin:  I feel obliged, in case of loss, not to return the capital of course, but to succor them, and to succor my niece and Cesarine.  You may all want bread, and you shall find it with me.”

“Want bread, uncle?”

“Yes, bread.  See things as they are, Cesar. You cannot extricate yourself. With five thousand six hundred francs income, I could set aside four thousand francs for you and the Ragons.  If misfortune overtakes you,—­I know Constance, she will work herself to the bone, she will deny herself everything; and so will you, Cesar.”