“And I, a Jew, who always told you not to touch that dirty business, how about me?”
“You! Tha different! You are a good Jew!” Cyprien interrupted.
As usual, when he heard that remark, Schleifmann could not dissimulate an angry gesture. M. Raindal regretted his lack of tact and attempted to turn the matter; he gave a mass of minute directions and topographic particulars touching the plan of the Bourse and the place where Pums was to be found.
“By the way,” he added, “take care of the clerks’ pranks! True, they will probably not be very much in a mood for joking to-day.... Nevertheless, be careful of their funny tricks! The first day I myself, went to the Bourse, why, they slipped a paper arrow under the collar of my coat; on it was written in large letters the word: Topper!... I know that it has no importance.... Just the same, it is sometimes very annoying at the moment!”
The carriage stopped before the gate of the monument.
“I shall wait for you here!” Raindal shouted after the Galician as he walked away. “Good luck for us both, and courage, my dear friend!”
Up above, under the colonnade, or top of the steps, was the mournful Bourse of the days of débâcle. Not a laugh, not a chat, no outburst of merry voices. The faces were ghastly pale; the bravest attempted a joke, twitching their features in lying smiles which were more hideous than grimaces. Over that lugubrious silence came the vociferations of the agents, the outbidding downward, the monotonous shouts of the sales, sales at any price. They were all selling.
An unfortunate mistake led the Galician right into the midst of the agents who were dealing with the gold mines.
Politely he removed his hat and stood before a fair young man who had ceased shouting.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” he said. “Will you be good enough to tell me where I can find M. Pums?”