“Pardon me, my tear,” said the baron to his wife, in a strong German accent, as he rose and nodded to Birotteau, “monsieur is a good royalist, and der intimate frient of tu Tillet.  Bezides, monsieur is debudy-mayor of der zecond arrondissement, and gifs palls of Aziatigue magnifissence; so vill you mak his acquentence mit blaysure.”

“I should be delighted to take lessons from Madame Birotteau, for Ferdinand—­”

“She calls him Ferdinand!” thought Cesar.

“—­spoke of the ball with great admiration, which is all the more valuable because he usually admires nothing.  Ferdinand is a harsh critic; in his eyes everything ought to be perfect.  Shall you soon give another ball?” she inquired affably.

“Madame, poor people, such as we are, seldom have many amusements of that kind,” said the perfumer, not knowing whether she meant to ridicule him, or was merely paying an empty compliment.

“Monsieur Grindot suberintented der resdoration of your abbartement, I zink?” said the baron.

“Ah, Grindot! that nice little architect who has just returned from Rome,” said Delphine de Nucingen.  “I dote on him; he makes delicious drawings in my album.”

No culprit enduring the torments of hell in Venetian dungeons ever suffered more from the torture of the boot than Birotteau did, standing there in his ordinary clothes.  He felt a sneer in every word.

“Vill you gif oder little palls?” said the banker, with a searching look at the perfumer.  “You see all der vorld ist inderesded.”

“Will Monsieur Birotteau breakfast with us, without ceremony?” said Delphine, motioning towards the table which was sumptuously served.

“Madame la baronne, I came on business, and I am—­”

“Yes, matame, vill you bermit us to speak of business?”

Delphine made a little sign of assent, saying to her husband, “Are you going to buy perfumery?” The baron shrugged his shoulders and turned to Cesar, who trembled with anxiety.

“Tu Tillet takes der graadest inderest in you,” he said.

“At last,” thought the poor man, “we are coming to the point.”

“His ledder gif you in my house a creydit vich is only limided by der limids of my privade fortune.”

The exhilarating balm infused into the water offered by the angel to Hagar in the desert, must have been the same cordial which flowed through Cesar’s veins as he listened to these words.  The wily banker retained the horrible pronunciation of the German Jews,—­possibly that he might be able to deny promises actually given, but only half-understood.

“You shall haf a running aggont.  Ve vill broceed in dis vay—­” said this great and good and venerable financier, with Alsatian good-humor.

Birotteau doubted no longer; he was a merchant, and new very well that those who have no intention of rendering a service never enter into the details of executing it.