"No doubt," replied the baron, laughing. "But you are a poet in your way, let me tell you once more. These gentlemen think it would be dangerous for you to extend your business further. They want to be prudent for you."
"How! prudent? I no longer understand. Don't the figures show the constant increase in our sales? At first, with a capital of five hundred thousand francs, I did business to the extent of two millions, turning over the capital four times every year. It then became four million francs, which, turned over ten times, produced business to the extent of forty millions. In short, after successive increases, I have just learnt, from the last stock-taking, that the business done now amounts to a total of eighty millions; the capital, which has only been slightly increased—for it does not exceed six millions—has passed over our counters, in the form of goods sold, more than twelve times in the year!"
He raised his voice and tapped the fingers of his right hand on the palm of his left, knocking down those millions as he might have cracked nuts. The baron interrupted him. "I know, I know. But you don't hope to keep on increasing in this way, do you?"
"Why not?" asked Mouret, ingenuously. "There's no reason why it should stop. The capital can be turned over as many as fifteen times, I predicted as much long ago. In certain departments it can even be turned over twenty-five or thirty times. And after? well! after, we'll find a means of turning it over still more."
"So you'll finish by swallowing up all the money in Paris, as you'd swallow a glass of water?"
"Most decidedly. Doesn't Paris belong to the women, and don't the women belong to us?"
The baron laid his hands on Mouret's shoulders, looking at him with a paternal air. "Listen, you're a fine fellow, and I like you. There's no resisting you. We'll go into the matter seriously, and I hope to make them listen to reason. So far, we are perfectly satisfied with you. Your dividends astonish the Bourse. You must be right; it will be better to put more money into your business, than to risk this competition with the Grand Hôtel, which is hazardous."
Mouret's excitement at once subsided and he thanked the baron, but without any of his usual enthusiasm; and the other saw him turn his eyes towards the door of the next room, again a prey to the secret anxiety which he was concealing. Meanwhile Vallagnosc had come up, on seeing that they had finished talking business. He stood close to them, listening to the baron, who, with the air of an old man who had seen life, was muttering: "I say, I fancy they're taking their revenge."
"Who?" asked Mouret in embarrassment.
"Why, the women. They're getting tired of belonging to you, and you now belong to them, my dear fellow: it's only just!"