“And sou by sou,” Lousteau said with a laugh.
“I will let you have fifteen hundred francs,” said Samanon, looking up.
Lucien started, as if the bill-broker had thrust a red-hot skewer through his heart. Samanon was subjecting the bills and their dates to a close scrutiny.
“And even then,” he added, “I must see Fendant first. He ought to deposit some books with me. You aren’t worth much” (turning to Lucien); “you are living with Coralie, and your furniture has been attached.”
Lousteau, watching Lucien, saw him take up his bills, and dash out into the street. “He is the devil himself!” exclaimed the poet. For several seconds he stood outside gazing at the shop front. The whole place was so pitiful, that a passer-by could not see it without smiling at the sight, and wondering what kind of business a man could do among those mean, dirty shelves of ticketed books.
A very few moments later, the great man, in incognito, came out, very well dressed, smiled at his friends, and turned to go with them in the direction of the Passage des Panoramas, where he meant to complete his toilet by the polishing of his boots.
“If you see Samanon in a bookseller’s shop, or calling on a paper-merchant or a printer, you may know that it is all over with that man,” said the artist. “Samanon is the undertaker come to take the measurements for a coffin.”
“You won’t discount your bills now, Lucien,” said Etienne.
“If Samanon will not take them, nobody else will; he is the ultima ratio,” said the stranger. “He is one of Gigonnet’s lambs, a spy for Palma, Werbrust, Gobseck, and the rest of those crocodiles who swim in the Paris money-market. Every man with a fortune to make, or unmake, is sure to come across one of them sooner or later.”
“If you cannot discount your bills at fifty per cent,” remarked Lousteau, “you must exchange them for hard cash.”