They entered a bedroom, with which Madame Birotteau’s compared like that of a chorus-singer’s on a fourth floor with the appartement of a prima-donna.  The ceiling was of violet-colored satin, heightened in its effect by folds of white satin; a rug of ermine lay at the bedside, and contrasted with the purple tones of a Turkish carpet.  The furniture and all the accessories were novel in shape, costly, and choice in character.  Birotteau paused before an exquisite clock, decorated with Cupid and Psyche, just designed for a famous banker, from whom du Tillet had obtained the sole copy ever made of it.  The former master and his former clerk at last reached an elegant coquettish cabinet, more redolent of love than finance.  Madame Roguin had doubtless contributed, in return for the care bestowed upon her fortune, the paper-knife in chiselled gold, the paper-weights of carved malachite, and all the costly knick-knacks of unrestrained luxury.  The carpet, one of the rich products of Belgium, was as pleasant to the eye as to the foot which felt the soft thickness of its texture.  Du Tillet made the poor, amazed, bewildered perfumer sit down at a corner of the fireplace.

“Will you breakfast with me?”

He rang the bell.  Enter a footman better dressed than Birotteau.

“Tell Monsieur Legras to come here, and then find Joseph at the door of the Messrs. Keller; tell him to return to the stable.  Leave word with Adolphe Keller that instead of going to see him, I shall expect him at the Bourse; and order breakfast served immediately.”

These commands amazed Cesar.

“He whistles to that formidable Adolphe Keller like a dog!—­he, du Tillet!”

A little tiger, about a thumb high, set out a table, which Birotteau had not observed, so slim was it, and brought in a pate de foie gras, a bottle of claret, and a number of dainty dishes which only appeared in Birotteau’s household once in three months, on great festive occasions.  Du Tillet enjoyed the effect.  His hatred towards the only man who had it in his power to despise him burned so hotly that Birotteau seemed, even to his own mind, like a sheep defending itself against a tiger.  For an instant, a generous idea entered du Tillet’s heart:  he asked himself if his vengeance were not sufficiently accomplished.  He hesitated between this awakened mercy and his dormant hate.

“I can annihilate him commercially,” he thought; “I have the power of life or death over him,—­over his wife who insulted me, and his daughter whose hand once seemed to me a fortune.  I have got his money; suppose I content myself with letting the poor fool swim at the end of a line I’ll hold for him?”

Honest minds are devoid of tact; their excellence is uncalculating, even unreflecting, because they are wholly without evasions or mental reservations of their own.  Birotteau now brought about his downfall; he incensed the tiger, pierced him to the heart without knowing it, made him implacable by a thoughtless word, a eulogy, a virtuous recognition,—­by the kind-heartedness, as it were, of his own integrity.  When the cashier entered, du Tillet motioned him to take notice of Cesar.