He made a motion as if to stride out of the carriage. Schleifmann pulled him back.
“Ho! Cyprien! Wha the matter?”
“I feel very much like chucking myself into the Seine.... It is right here, under my very nose.... It would save me a trip!”
The Galician shrugged his shoulders philosophically.
“Do be foolish, Raindal!... Be serious, my dear fellow! Your brother is not your brother for nothing!... Hl pull you out of it! He will arrange this affair!”
“If he arranges it as you have done, be it said without reproach, Schleifmann, I am sorry for my creditors!” Raindal retorted calmly.
He said not another word until they reached the rue ssas. But while Schleifmann paid the driver, Cyprien felt a sudden sensation of weakness.
“Schleifmann!” he called out.
“I am coming!” the Galician replied.
There was a dull sound. A brown sombrero rolled into the gutter. M. Raindal had sunk, bent in two, on the pavement, all his nerves relaxed, his limbs flabby—a bundle of lifeless flesh with a face of chalk-like pallor.