“My dear master, the Bank has refused to take your notes which the house of Claparon passed over to Gigonnet not guaranteed. Is that my fault? How is it that you, an old commercial judge, should commit such blunders? I am, first and foremost, a banker. I will give you my money, but I cannot risk having my signature refused at the Bank. My credit is my life; that is the case with all of us. Do you want money?”
“Can you give me what I want?”
“That depends on how much you owe. How much do you want?”
“Thirty thousand francs.”
“Are the chimney-bricks coming down on my head?” exclaimed du Tillet, bursting into a laugh.
Cesar, misled by the luxury about him, fancied it was the laugh of a man to whom the sum was a mere trifle; he breathed again. Du Tillet rang the bell.
“Send the cashier to me.”
“He has not come, monsieur,” said the valet.
“These fellows take advantage of me! It is half-past eight o’clock, and he ought to have done a million francs’ worth of business by this time.”
Five minutes later Monsieur Legras came in.