“Hey, hey! it is papa Mitral!” cried one of them, named Chaboisseau, a little old man who discounted for a publisher.
“Bless me, so it is!” said another, a broker named Metivier, “ha, that’s an old monkey well up in his tricks.”
“And you,” retorted Mitral, “you are an old crow who knows all about carcasses.”
“True,” said the stern Gobseck.
“What are you here for? Have you come to seize friend Metivier?” asked Gigonnet, pointing to the broker, who had the bluff face of a porter.
“Your great-niece Elisabeth is out there, papa Gigonnet,” whispered Mitral.
“What! some misfortune?” said Bidault. The old man drew his eyebrows together and assumed a tender look like that of an executioner when about to go to work officially. In spite of his Roman virtue he must have been touched, for his red nose lost somewhat of its color.
“Well, suppose it is misfortune, won’t you help Saillard’s daughter?—a girl who has knitted your stockings for the last thirty years!” cried Mitral.
“If there’s good security I don’t say I won’t,” replied Gigonnet. “Falleix is in with them. Falleix has just set up his brother as a broker, and he is doing as much business as the Brezacs; and what with? his mind, perhaps! Saillard is no simpleton.”
“He knows the value of money,” put in Chaboisseau.