“Could you let me have that book?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Chaboisseau, transformed into a bookseller.
“How much?”
“Fifty francs.”
“It is dear, but I want it. And I can only pay you with one of the bills which you refuse to take.”
“You have a bill there for five hundred francs at six months; I will take that one of you,” said Chaboisseau.
Apparently at the last statement of accounts, there had been a balance of five hundred francs in favor of Fendant and Cavalier.
They went back to the classical department. Chaboisseau made out a little memorandum, interest so much and commission so much, total deduction thirty francs, then he subtracted fifty francs for Ducerceau’s book; finally, from a cash-box full of coin, he took four hundred and twenty francs.
“Look here, though, M. Chaboisseau, the bills are either all of them good, or all bad alike; why don’t you take the rest?”
“This is not discounting; I am paying myself for a sale,” said the old man.