The other looked at him, dumfounded.... M. Pums, on such a day, at such a time! As if he had nothing else to do! Wait, wait a bit, old man, they are going to give it to you; thel show you M. Pums!... And, of a sudden, on a wink from the blonde young man, with repeated shouts of “M. Pums! M. Pums!” a frantic rush sent the unfortunate Schleifmann forward.
“M. Pums! M. Pums!” The Galician passed from hand to hand, from group to group, thrown from Gold to Cash, from Cash to Gold, from Gold to Values, from Values to External, from External to Turkish. All of them, despite the tragic hour, despite the anguish of that da operations, sought relief for their nerves in that brutal game, relaxed their hearts and arms by molesting the old intruder.... “M. Pums! M. Pums!”
He landed in a corner of the circular hall; his gold-rimmed spectacles all awry, his hat thrown on the floor in a final cuff.
A little messenger, in a bottle-green livery, took pity on his distress.
“Here, monsieur!” he said, picking up Schleifman hat. “You want M. Pums!... I work at the bank.... M. Pums is at his office, 72 rue Vivienne.”
“Thank you, youngster!” the Galician stammered. “Thanks very much, my boy!”
Slowly, looking back at every step for fear of a treacherous blow, and polishing his poor hat with his sleeve, he walked down the steps.
The hall of the bank was crowded with solicitors when the Galician entered. There were agents, bucket-shop brokers, financial go-betweens of all kinds, some seated, their eyes on their shoes, in a defeated attitude, others standing talking by groups in corners or near the windows, with the measured accents one uses in the room of the dying.
Alone, the usher in green livery, seated behind his oak rostrum, seemed indifferent to the cares of those about him and read placidly the serial story in the Petit Journal.
He barely moved his eyelids to decipher the card which Schleifmann pushed before him and fell back to his paper, saying, “Very good, monsieur.... Please take a seat!”