That remark, uttered among those old men, would have made an artist and thinker shudder as they all nodded their heads.
“But it is none of my business,” resumed Bidault-Gigonnet. “I’m not bound to care for my neighbors’ misfortunes. My principle is never to be off my guard with friends or relatives; you can’t perish except through weakness. Apply to Gobseck; he is softer.”
The usurers all applauded these doctrines with a shake of their metallic heads. An onlooker would have fancied he heard the creaking of ill-oiled machinery.
“Come, Gigonnet, show a little feeling,” said Chaboisseau, “they’ve knit your stockings for thirty years.”
“That counts for something,” remarked Gobseck.
“Are you all alone? Is it safe to speak?” said Mitral, looking carefully about him. “I come about a good piece of business.”
“If it is good, why do you come to us?” said Gigonnet, sharply, interrupting Mitral.
“A fellow who was a gentleman of the Bedchamber,” went on Mitral, “a former ‘chouan,’—what’s his name?—La Billardiere is dead.”
“True,” said Gobseck.
“And our nephew is giving monstrances to the church,” snarled Gigonnet.