“Three hundred and five thousand.”
Another silence. All eyes were now directed to the capitalist in the expectation that he would raise the bidding. But Herschmann was not paying any attention to the sale; his eyes were fixed on a sheet of paper which he held in his right hand, while the other hand held a torn envelope.
“Three hundred and five thousand,” repeated the auctioneer. “Once!... Twice!... For the last time.... Do I hear any more?... Once!... Twice!... Am I offered any more? Last chance!...”
Herschmann did not move.
“Third and last time!... Sold!” exclaimed the auctioneer, as his hammer fell.
“Four hundred thousand,” cried Herschman, starting up, as if the sound of the hammer had roused him from his stupor.
Too late; the auctioneer’s decision was irrevocable. Some of Herschmann’s acquaintances pressed around him. What was the matter? Why did he not speak sooner? He laughed, and said:
“Ma foi! I simply forgot—in a moment of abstraction.”
“That is strange.”
“You see, I just received a letter.”