Payot got very red in the face, and cast a defiant glance at the Agent de Bourse.
"Has monsieur got many?" the broker enquired.
"Yes, I am the proud possessor of a million francs worth."
"Holy Virgin," cried the agent in a mocking tone, "what a fool!"
"Does monsieur wish to insult me then?" cried Payot. "I think I know what I am doing better than he does. I know the mine and I know the promoters."
"I beg monsieur's pardon a thousand times," replied the agent, feeling a little ashamed of himself and assuming a kinder tone, "but I also know the promoters, and if monsieur will take my poor advice, which I give without the least prejudice or self interest, monsieur will sell his shares as quickly as he can. See," he added, as he took up the tape once more, "regardez-la," and the letters spelt out, 'Jerusalems 45 frs.—35 frs.—20 frs.—17 frs. 50—15 frs.—10 frs.' Payot gazed at them in terror. He shut his eyes and would have fallen but for his friend, the agent, who caught hold of him and steadied him.
"Come with me," he said in a kindly voice, and taking him to the nearest café gave him a glass of brandy.
The brandy revived him and he thanked his friend.
"Now, my dear sir," he replied, "permit me to sell your shares for you."
Payot squeezed his hand. "Merci, monsieur," he replied, "I would gladly do so, but my shares are all underwritten, and I have not received them yet."