“Will Monsieur Birotteau breakfast with us, without ceremony?” said Delphine, motioning towards the table which was sumptuously served.
“Madame la baronne, I came on business, and I am—”
“Yes, matame, vill you bermit us to speak of business?”
Delphine made a little sign of assent, saying to her husband, “Are you going to buy perfumery?” The baron shrugged his shoulders and turned to Cesar, who trembled with anxiety.
“Tu Tillet takes der graadest inderest in you,” he said.
“At last,” thought the poor man, “we are coming to the point.”
“His ledder gif you in my house a creydit vich is only limided by der limids of my privade fortune.”
The exhilarating balm infused into the water offered by the angel to Hagar in the desert, must have been the same cordial which flowed through Cesar’s veins as he listened to these words. The wily banker retained the horrible pronunciation of the German Jews,—possibly that he might be able to deny promises actually given, but only half-understood.
“You shall haf a running aggont. Ve vill broceed in dis vay—” said this great and good and venerable financier, with Alsatian good-humor.
Birotteau doubted no longer; he was a merchant, and new very well that those who have no intention of rendering a service never enter into the details of executing it.