He would always spend silver and gold money, but money paid to him in bank-notes, which he had to accept, he would put by year by year among this collection of cards, funny pictures, and theatrical programmes; this heap of value was never disturbed except when, as at present, some enforced visit had to be put up with, some so-called "execution."
"Please, help yourselves."
"What?" cried the magistrate. "Must we pick out the value from the non-value in this rubbish?"
"Now I am not so well-informed an expert as to distinguish what is recalled from what is still in circulation. Still my good friend is right, it is my duty to count out, yours to receive."
Then he plunged his hand into the treasure-heap, and counted over the bits of paper.
"This is good, this is not. This is still new, this is surely torn. Here's a five florin, here a ten florin note. This is the Knave of Hearts."
A little discussion occurred when he counted a label that had been removed from an old champagne bottle, as a ten florin note.
The gentlemen took exception to that: it must be thrown away.
"What, is this not money? It must be money. It is a French bank-note. There is written on it ten florins. Cliquot will pay if you take it to him."
Then he began to explain several comical pictures, and bargained with the authorities—how much would they give for them? he had paid a big price for them.