day and the hour had been chosen by agreement with the judge and the assignees.  The three solicitors were already there on behalf of their clients.  There was nothing, therefore, to distress or intimidate Cesar Birotteau; yet the poor man could not enter the office of Monsieur Camusot—­which chanced to be the one he had formerly occupied—­without deep emotion, and he shuddered as he passed through the Hall of Bankruptcy.

“It is cold,” said Monsieur Camusot to Birotteau.  “I am sure these gentlemen will not be sorry to stay here, instead of our going to freeze in the Hall.”  He did not say the word “Bankruptcy.”  “Gentlemen, be seated.”

Each took his seat, and the judge gave his own armchair to Birotteau, who was bewildered.  The solicitors and the assignees signed the papers.

“In consideration of the surrender of your entire property,” said Camusot to Birotteau, “your creditors unanimously agree to relinquish the rest of their claims.  Your certificate is couched in terms which may well soften your pain; your solicitor will see that it is promptly recorded; you are now free.  All the judges of this court, dear Monsieur Birotteau,” said Camusot, taking him by the hand, “feel for your position, and are not surprised at your courage; none have failed to do justice to your integrity.  In the midst of a great misfortune you have been worthy of what you once were here.  I have been in business for twenty years, and this is only the second time that I have seen a fallen merchant gaining, instead of losing, public respect.”

Birotteau took the hands of the judge and wrung them, with tears in his eyes.  Camusot asked him what he now meant to do.  Birotteau replied that he should work till he had paid his creditors in full to the last penny.

“If to accomplish that noble task you should ever want a few thousand francs, you will always find them with me,” said Camusot.  “I would give them with a great deal of pleasure to witness a deed so rare in Paris.”

Pillerault, Ragon, and Birotteau retired.

“Well! that wasn’t the ocean to drink,” said Pillerault, as they left the court-room.

“I recognize your hand in it,” said the poor man, much affected.

“Now, here you are, free, and we are only a few steps from the Rue des Cinq-Diamants; come and see my nephew,” said Ragon.

A cruel pang shot through Cesar’s heart when he saw Constance sitting in a little office in the damp, dark entresol above the shop, whose single window was one third darkened by a sign which intercepted the daylight and bore the name,—­A.  POPINOT.

“Behold a lieutenant of Alexander,” said Cesar, with the gaiety of grief, pointing to the sign.

This forced gaiety, through which an inextinguishable sense of the superiority which Birotteau attributed to himself was naively revealed, made Ragon shudder in spite of his seventy years.  Cesar saw his wife passing down letters and papers for Popinot to sign; he could neither restrain his tears nor keep his face from turning pale.