“Pardon me, sir! I never suffer people to make a fool of me!” rejoined the banker with much dignity.
“Yes, yes—somebody has dished up a canard for you. What, that good-for-nothing scoundrel to be elected mayor! Never in his life! Hans Shund mayor—really that is good now—ha, ha!”
“Mr. Sand, you lead me to suspect that you belong to the party of Ultramontanes.”
“Who—I an Ultramontane? That is ridiculous! Sir, I am at the head of the men of progress—I am the most liberal of the liberals—that, sir, is placarded on every wall.”
“How come you, then, to call Mr. Sand a good-for-nothing scoundrel?”
“Simply for this reason, because he is a usurer and a dissipated wretch.”
“Then I am in the right, after all! Mr. Sand belongs to the ranks of the pious,” jeered the banker.
“Mr. Greifmann, you are insulting!”
“Nothing is further from my intention than to wound your feelings, my dear Mr. Sand! Be cool and reasonable. Reflect, if you please. Shund, you say, puts out money at thirty per cent. and higher, and therefore he is a usurer. Is it not thus that you reason?”