He spent the following week in a fever of pleasant anxiety. The stocks were rising. But he feared he had made a mistake. He was afraid of having exaggerated the profits which, according to his calculations, were already in the neighborhood of two thousand francs. This spoiled his happiness every night.
Consequently he felt a sudden emotion when, on the morning of the 29th, as he was leaving his house to go to the brasserie, the concierge handed him a yellow envelope with the heading of the Talloire house. What did this long envelope contain? Supposing he had miscalculated? If, instead of the expected profits, it were to tell him of losses?
He walked to the high door of the house and tore the envelope open when he was behind it. It contained only a single sheet of paper, striped zebra-like with columns, figures, abbreviated words, and the trembling of his hands further increased the chaos. Two trade expressions caught his eye, on the left: Dr.; on the right: Cr. Above these he read:
M. Cyprien Raindal
His account in settlement of April 30 with M. Talloire, Broker, 96 rue de Choiseul.
“Hm! I must be cool! Do I win or do I lose?” the uncle murmured, while his eyes scanned the page. He noticed at last a little gathering of figures in a corner, with, next to the word Total, the mention: Creditor: 7700 fr.
“Seven thousand, seven hundred francs!” he muttered, his heart beating fast against his ribs. “From 7700 I take out the 5000 I put in.... There remains 2700! Two thousand, seven hundred francs profit! There must be some mistake.... And yet I must be right; whoever receives, he owes; whoever owes, he receives.... I am the creditor.... I win.”
Yet a doubt lurked in his mind, despite this certainty. He wanted to free himself from it at once, to know, and it was nothing but the fear of importuning the agent that prevented him from rushing to the rue de Choiseul. This distressful feeling was met with a sudden remembrance of the Marquis’ advice, “to bother Pums ten times rather than one.” The solution was clear, since Pums himself had offered his services beforehand. Uncle Cyprien jumped into a cab.
All the way, in order to prop up his own faith, he repeated in rhythmic time: “Who receives owes!... who owes receives!... Nevertheless, this axiom did not altogether reassure him. Only the jovial reception Pums gave him restored Cyprie serenity.
“Well!” the banker exclaimed, when he saw his protégé. “It seems to me that we have no cause to complain.... If my calculations are right, M. Raindal, you have made about 500 francs!”