“That would make each one’s share of the costs four hundred florins.”
Taking a five-hundred florin banknote between his thumb and forefinger, the banker reached it carelessly to the somewhat puzzled leader.
“My contribution to the promotion of the interests of progress! I shall give as much to Messrs. Sand and Erdblatt.”
“Many thanks, Mr. Greifmann!” said Schwefel, pocketing the money with satisfaction.
The millionaire drew himself up. “I have no doubt,” said he, in his former cold and haughty tone, “that my recommendation will secure your establishment the custom already alluded to.”
“I entertain a similar confidence in your influence, and will take the liberty of commending myself most respectfully to your favor.” Bowing frequently, Schwefel retreated backwards towards the door, and disappeared. Greifmann stepped to the open entrance of the side apartment. There sat the youthful landholder, his head resting heavily on his hand. He looked up, and Carl’s smiling face was met by a pair of stern, almost fierce eyes.
“Have you heard, friend Seraphin?” asked he triumphantly.
“Yes—and what I have heard surpasses everything. You have bargained with a member of that vile class who recognize no difference between honor and disgrace, between good and evil, between self-respect and infamy, who know only one god—which is money.”
“Do not show yourself so implacable against these vile beings, my dearest! There is much that is useful in them, at any rate they are helping me to the finest horses belonging to the aristocracy.”