“That Roguin will carry off our funds?” said Pillerault, laughing. “Pray, why?”
“She says there is too much in his nose; and like men who can’t have women, he is furious to—”
With a smile of incredulity, Pillerault tore a strip from a little book, wrote down an amount, and signed the paper.
“There,” said he, “there’s a cheque on the Bank of France for a hundred thousand francs for the Ragons and for me. Those poor folks have just sold to your scoundrel of a du Tillet their fifteen shares in the mines at Wortschin to make up the amount. Worthy people in trouble,—it wrings my heart; and such good, noble souls, the very flower of the old bourgeoisie! Their brother, Popinot, the judge, knows nothing about it; they hid it from him so that he may not feel obliged to give up his other works of charity. People who have worked, like me, for forty years!”
“God grant that the Oil of Comagene may triumph!” cried Birotteau. “I shall be doubly happy. Adieu; come and dine on Sunday with the Ragons, Roguin, and Monsieur Claparon. We shall sign the papers the day after to-morrow, for to-morrow is Friday, you know, and I shouldn’t like—”
“You don’t surely give in to such superstitions?”
“Uncle, I shall never believe that the day on which the Son of God was put to death by man can be a fortunate day. Why, we ourselves stop all business on the twenty-first of January.”
“On Sunday, then,” said Pillerault brusquely.
“If it were not for his political opinions,” thought Birotteau as he went down stairs, “I don’t believe he would have his equal here below. What are politics to him? He would be just as well off if he never thought of them. His obstinacy in that direction only shows that there can’t be a perfect man.”
“Three o’clock already!” cried Cesar, as he got back to “The Queen of Roses.”