Gigonnet took off the terrible green cap which seemed to have been born on him, pointed to his skull, denuded of hair and of the color of fresh butter, made his usual Voltairean grimace, and said: “You wish to pay me in hair-oil; have I any use for it?”
“If you choose to jest, there is nothing to be done but to beat a retreat,” said Pillerault.
“You speak like the wise man that you are,” answered Gigonnet, with a flattering smile.
“Well, suppose I endorse Monsieur Popinot’s notes?” said Pillerault, playing his last card.
“You are gold by the ingot, Monsieur Pillerault; but I don’t want bars of gold, I want my money.”
Pillerault and Popinot bowed and went away. Going down the stairs, Popinot’s knees shook under him.
“Is that a man?” he said to Pillerault.
“They say so,” replied the other. “My boy, always bear in mind this short interview. Anselme, you have just seen the banking-business unmasked, without its cloak of courtesy. Unexpected events are the screw of the press, we are the grapes, the bankers are the casks. That land speculation is no doubt a good one; Gigonnet, or some one behind him, means to strangle Cesar and step into his skin. It is all over; there’s no remedy. But such is the Bank: be warned; never have recourse to it!”
After this horrible morning, during which Madame Birotteau for the first time sent away those who came for their money, taking their addresses, the courageous woman, happy in the thought that she was thus sparing her husband from distress, saw Popinot and Pillerault, for whom she waited with ever-growing anxiety, return at eleven o’clock, and read her sentence in their faces. The assignment was inevitable.
“He will die of grief,” said the poor woman.