“Oh, monsieur,” said the southerner. “Before you are ruined, the sun will have married the earth and they’ll have had children.”
Birotteau stroked his chin, rose on the points of his toes, and fell back upon his heels.
“Besides,” resumed Cayron, “all I ask you to do is to cash these securities for me—”
And he held out sixteen notes amounting in all to five thousand francs.
“Ah!” said the perfumer turning them over. “Small fry, two months, three months—”
“Take them as low as six per cent,” said the umbrella-man humbly.
“Am I a usurer?” asked the perfumer reproachfully.
“What can I do, monsieur? I went to your old clerk, du Tillet, and he would not take them at any price. No doubt he wanted to find out how much I’d be willing to lose on them.”
“I don’t know those signatures,” said the perfumer.
“We have such queer names in canes and umbrellas; they belong to the peddlers.”