“We will go together to the Chamber,” said the banker, striking the attitude of the frog who imitates an ox.

“How can he find time to think of business?” thought Birotteau, much disturbed.

The sun of successful superiority dazzled the perfumer, as light blinds those insects who seek the falling day or the half-shadows of a starlit night.  On a table of immense size lay the budget, piles of the Chamber records, open volumes of the “Moniteur,” with passages carefully marked, to throw at the head of a Minister his forgotten words and force him to recant them, under the jeering plaudits of a foolish crowd incapable of perceiving how circumstances alter cases.  On another table were heaped portfolios, minutes, projects, specifications, and all the thousand memoranda brought to bear upon a man into whose funds so many nascent industries sought to dip.  The royal luxury of this cabinet, filled with pictures, statues, and works of art; the encumbered chimney-piece; the accumulation of many interests, national and foreign, heaped together like bales,—­all struck Birotteau’s mind, dwarfed his powers, heightened his terror, and froze his blood.  On Francois Keller’s desk lay bundles of notes and checks, letters of credit, and commercial circulars.  Keller sat down and began to sign rapidly such letters as needed no examination.

“Monsieur, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

At these words, uttered for him alone by a voice which influenced all Europe, while the eager hand was running over the paper, the poor perfumer felt something that was like a hot iron in his stomach.  He assumed the ingratiating manner which for ten years past the banker had seen all men put on when they wanted to get the better of him for their own purposes, and which gave him at once the advantage over them.  Francois Keller accordingly darted at Cesar a look which shot through his head,—­a Napoleonic look.  This imitation of Napoleon’s glance was a silly satire, then popular with certain parvenus who had never seen so much as the base coin of their emperor.  This glance fell upon Birotteau, a devotee of the Right, a partisan of the government, —­himself an element of monarchical election,—­like the stamp of a custom-house officer affixed to a bale of merchandise.

“Monsieur, I will not waste your time; I will be brief.  I come on commercial business only,—­to ask if I can obtain a credit.  I was formerly a judge of the commercial courts, and known to the Bank of France.  You will easily understand that if I had plenty of ready money I need only apply there, where you are yourself a director.  I had the honor of sitting on the Bench of commerce with Monsieur le baron Thibon, chairman of the committee on discounts; and he, most assuredly, would not refuse me.  But up to this time I have never made use of my credit or my signature; my signature is virgin,—­and you know what difficulties that puts in the way of negotiation.”