Anselme Popinot went down the Rue Saint-Honore and rushed along the Rue des Deux-Ecus to seize upon a young man whom his commercial second-sight pointed out to him as the principal instrument of his future fortune. Popinot the judge had once done a great service to the cleverest of all commercial travellers, to him whose triumphant loquacity and activity were to win him, in coming years, the title of The Illustrious. Devoted especially to the hat-trade and the article-Paris, this prince of travellers was called, at the time of which we write, purely and simply, Gaudissart. At the age of twenty-two he was already famous by the power of his commercial magnetism. In those days he was slim, with a joyous eye, expressive face, unwearied memory, and a glance that guessed the wants of every one; and he deserved to be, what in fact he became, the king of commercial travellers, the Frenchman par excellence. A few days earlier Popinot had met Gaudissart, who mentioned that he was on the point of departure; the hope of finding him still in Paris sent the lover flying into the Rue des Deux-Ecus, where he learned that the traveller had engaged his place at the Messageries-Royales. To bid adieu to his beloved capital, Gaudissart had gone to see a new piece at the Vaudeville; Popinot resolved to wait for him. Was it not drawing a cheque on fortune to entrust the launching of the oil of nuts to this incomparable steersman of mercantile inventions, already petted and courted by the richest firms? Popinot had reason to feel sure of Gaudissart. The commercial traveller, so knowing in the art of entangling that most wary of human beings, the little provincial trader, had himself become entangled in the first conspiracy attempted against the Bourbons after the Hundred Days. Gaudissart, to whom the open firmament of heaven was indispensable, found himself shut up in prison, under the weight of an accusation for a capital offence. Popinot the judge, who presided at the trial, released him on the ground that it was nothing worse than his imprudent folly which had mixed him up in the affair. A judge anxious to please the powers in office, or a rabid royalist, would have sent the luckless traveller to the scaffold. Gaudissart, who believed he owed his life to the judge, cherished the grief of being unable to make his savior any other return than that of sterile gratitude. As he could not thank a judge for doing justice, he went to the Ragons and declared himself liege-vassal forever to the house of Popinot.

While waiting about for Gaudissart, Anselme naturally went to look at the shop in the Rue des Cinq-Diamants, and got the address of the owner, for the purpose of negotiating a lease. As he sauntered through the dusky labyrinth of the great market, thinking how to achieve a rapid success, he suddenly came, in the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher, upon a rare chance, and one of good omen, with which he resolved to regale Cesar on the morrow. Soon after, while standing about the door of the Hotel du Commerce, at the end of the Rue des Deux-Ecus, about midnight, he heard, in the far distance of the Rue de Grenelle, a vaudeville chorus sung by Gaudissart, with a cane accompaniment significantly rapped upon the pavement.

“Monsieur,” said Anselme, suddenly appearing from the doorway, “two words?”

“Eleven, if you like,” said the commercial traveller, brandishing his loaded cane over the aggressor.

“I am Popinot,” said poor Anselme.

“Enough!” cried Gaudissart, recognizing him. “What do you need? Money?—absent, on leave, but we can get it. My arm for a duel?—all is yours, from my head to my heels,” and he sang,—

“Come and talk with me for ten minutes; not in your room,—we might be overheard,—but on the Quai de l’Horloge; there’s no one there at this hour,” said Popinot. “It is about something important.”

“Exciting, hey? Proceed.”

In ten minutes Gaudissart, put in possession of Popinot’s secret, saw its importance.

sang Gaudissart, mimicking Lafon in the role of the Cid. “I shall grab every shopkeeper in France and Navarre.—Oh, an idea! I was about to start; I remain; I shall take commissions from the Parisian perfumers.”

“Why?”

“To strangle your rivals, simpleton! If I take their orders I can make their perfidious cosmetics drink oil, simply by talking and working for yours only. A first-rate traveller’s trick! Ha! ha! we are the diplomatists of commerce. Famous! As for your prospectus, I’ll take charge of that. I’ve got a friend—early childhood—Andoche Finot, son of the hat-maker in the Rue du Coq, the old buffer who launched me into travelling on hats. Andoche, who has a great deal of wit,—he got it all out of the heads tiled by his father,—he is in literature; he does the minor theatres in the ‘Courrier des Spectacles.’ His father, an old dog chock-full of reasons for not liking wit, won’t believe in it; impossible to make him see that mind can be sold, sells itself in fact: he won’t believe in anything but the three-sixes. Old Finot manages young Finot by famine. Andoche, a capable man, no fool,—I don’t consort with fools, except commercially,—Andoche makes epigrams for the ‘Fidele Berger,’ which pays; while the other papers, for which he works like a galley-slave, keep him down on his marrow-bones in the dust. Are not they jealous, those fellows? Just the same in the article-Paris! Finot wrote a superb comedy in one act for Mademoiselle Mars, most glorious of the glorious!—ah, there’s a woman I love!—Well, in order to get it played he had to take it to the Gaite. Andoche understands prospectuses, he worms himself into the mercantile mind; and he’s not proud, he’ll concoct it for us gratis. Damn it! with a bowl of punch and a few cakes we’ll get it out of him; for, Popinot, no nonsense! I am to travel on your commission without pay: your competitors shall pay; I’ll diddle it out of them. Let us understand each other clearly. As for me, this triumph is an affair of honor. My reward is to be best man at your wedding! I shall go to Italy, Germany, England! I shall carry with me placards in all languages, paste them everywhere, in villages, on doors of churches, all the best spots I can find in provincial towns! The oil shall sparkle, scintillate, glisten on every head. Ha! your marriage shall not be a sham; we’ll make it a pageant, colors flying! You shall have your Cesarine, or my name shall not be ILLUSTRIOUS,—that is what Pere Finot calls me for having got off his gray hats. In selling your oil I keep to my own sphere, the human head; hats and oil are well-known preservatives of the public hair.”

Popinot returned to his aunt’s house, where he was to sleep, in such a fever, caused by his visions of success, that the streets seemed to him to be running oil. He slept little, dreamed that his hair was madly growing, and saw two angels who unfolded, as they do in melodramas, a scroll on which was written “Oil Cesarine.” He woke, recollected the dream, and vowed to give the oil of nuts that sacred name, accepting the sleeping fancy as a celestial mandate.

Cesar and Popinot were at their work-shop in the Faubourg du Temple the next morning long before the arrival of the nuts. While waiting for Madame Madou’s porters, Popinot triumphantly recounted his treaty of alliance with Gaudissart.

“Have we indeed the illustrious Gaudissart? Then are we millionaires!” cried the perfumer, extending his hand to his cashier with an air which Louis XIV. must have worn when he received the Marechal de Villars on his return from Denain.

“We have something besides,” said the happy clerk, producing from his pocket a bottle of a squat shape, like a pumpkin, and ribbed on the sides. “I have found ten thousand bottles like that, all made ready to hand, at four sous, and six months’ credit.”

“Anselme,” said Birotteau, contemplating the wondrous shape of the flask, “yesterday [here his tone of voice became solemn] in the Tuileries,—yes, no later than yesterday,—you said to me, ‘I will succeed.’ To-day I—I say to you, ‘You will succeed.’ Four sous! six months! an unparalleled shape! Macassar trembles to its foundations! Was I not right to seize upon the only nuts in Paris? Where did you find these bottles?”

“I was waiting to speak to Gaudissart, and sauntering—”

“Just like me, when I found the Arab book,” cried Birotteau.

“Coming down the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher, I saw in a wholesale glass place, where they make blown glass and cases,—an immense place,—I caught sight of this flask; it blinded my eyes like a sudden light; a voice cried to me, ‘Here’s your chance!’”

“Born merchant! he shall have my daughter!” muttered Cesar.

“I went in; I saw thousands of these bottles packed in cases.”

“You asked about them?”

“Do you think me such a ninny?” cried Anselme, in a grieved tone.

“Born merchant!” repeated Birotteau.

“I asked for glass cases for the little wax Jesus; and while I was bargaining about them I found fault with the shape of the bottles. From one thing to another, I trapped the man into admitting that Faille and Bouchot, who lately failed, were starting a new cosmetic and wanted a peculiar style of bottle; he was doubtful about them and asked for half the money down. Faille and Bouchot, expecting to succeed, paid the money; they failed while the bottles were making. The assignees, when called upon to pay the bill, arranged to leave him the bottles and the money in hand, as an indemnity for the manufacture of articles thought to be ridiculous in shape, and quite unsalable. They cost originally eight sous; he was glad to get rid of them for four; for, as he said, God knows how long he might have on his hands a shape for which there was no sale! ‘Are you willing,’ I said to him, ‘to furnish ten thousand at four sous? If so, I may perhaps relieve you of them. I am a clerk at Monsieur Birotteau’s.’ I caught him, I led him, I mastered him, I worked him up, and he is all ours.”

“Four sous!” said Birotteau. “Do you know that we could use oil at three francs, and make a profit of thirty sous, and give twenty sous discount to retailers?”

“Oil Cesarine!” cried Popinot.

“Oil Cesarine?—Ah, lover! would you flatter both father and daughter? Well, well, so be it; Oil Cesarine! The Cesars owned the whole world. They must have had fine hair.”

“Cesar was bald,” said Popinot.

“Because he never used our oil. Three francs for the Oil Cesarine, while Macassar Oil costs double! Gaudissart to the fore! We shall make a hundred thousand francs this year, for we’ll pour on every head that respects itself a dozen bottles a year,—eighteen francs; say eighteen thousand heads,—one hundred and eighty thousand francs. We are millionaires!”

The nuts delivered, Raguet, the workmen, Popinot, and Cesar shelled a sufficient quantity, and before four o’clock they had produced several pounds of oil. Popinot carried the product to show to Vauquelin, who made him a present of a recipe for mixing the essence of nuts with other and less costly oleaginous substances, and scenting it. Popinot went to work at once to take out a patent for the invention and all improvements thereon. The devoted Gaudissart lent him the money to pay the fees, for Popinot was ambitious to pay his share in the undertaking.

Prosperity brings with it an intoxication which inferior men are unable to resist. Cesar’s exaltation of spirit had a result not difficult to foresee. Grindot came, and presented a colored sketch of a charming interior view of the proposed appartement. Birotteau, seduced, agreed to everything; and soon the house, and the heart of Constance, began to quiver under the blows of pick and hammer. The house-painter, Monsieur Lourdois, a very rich contractor, who had promised that nothing should be wanting, talked of gilding the salon. On hearing that word Constance interposed.

“Monsieur Lourdois,” she said, “you have an income of thirty thousand francs, you occupy your own house, and you can do what you like to it; but the rest of us—”

“Madame, commerce ought to shine and not permit itself to be kept in the shade by the aristocracy. Besides, Monsieur Birotteau is in the government; he is before the eyes of the world—”

“Yes, but he still keeps a shop,” said Constance, in the hearing of the clerks and the five persons who were listening to her. “Neither he, nor I, nor his friends, nor his enemies will forget that.”

Birotteau rose upon the points of his toes and fell back upon his heels several times, his hands crossed behind him.

“My wife is right,” he said; “we should be modest in prosperity. Moreover, as long as a man is in business he should be careful of his expenses, limited in his luxury; the law itself imposes the obligation,—he must not allow himself ‘excessive expenditures.’ If the enlargement of my home and its decoration were to go beyond due limits, it would be wrong in me to permit it; you yourself would blame me, Lourdois. The neighborhood has its eye upon me; successful men incur jealousy, envy. Ah! you will soon know that, young man,” he said to Grindot; “if we are calumniated, at least let us give no handle to the calumny.”

“Neither calumny nor evil-speaking can touch you,” said Lourdois; “your position is unassailable. But your business habits are so strong that you must argue over every enterprise; you are a deep one—”

“True, I have some experience in business. You know, of course, why I make this enlargement? If I insist on punctuality in the completion of the work, it is—”

“No.”

“Well, my wife and I are about to assemble our friends, as much to celebrate the emancipation of our territory as to commemorate my promotion to the order of the Legion of honor—”

“What do you say?” said Lourdois, “have they given you the cross?”

“Yes; I may possibly have shown myself worthy of that signal royal favor by my services on the Bench of commerce, and by fighting for the Bourbons upon the steps of Saint-Roch, on the 13th Vendemiaire, where I was wounded by Napoleon. Come to the ball, and bring your wife and daughter.”

“Charmed with the honor you deign to pay me,” said Lourdois (a liberal). “But you are a deep one, Papa Birotteau; you want to make sure that I shall not break my word,—that’s the reason you invite me. Well, I’ll employ my best workmen; we’ll build the fires of hell and dry the paint. I must find some desiccating process; it would never do to dance in a fog from the wet plaster. We will varnish it to hide the smell.”

Three days later the commercial circles of the quarter were in a flutter at the announcement of Birotteau’s ball. Everybody could see for themselves the props and scaffoldings necessitated by the change of the staircase, the square wooden funnels down which the rubbish was thrown into the carts stationed in the street. The sight of men working by torchlight—for there were day workmen and night workmen—arrested all the idlers and busybodies in the street; gossip, based on these preparations, proclaimed a sumptuous forthcoming event.

On Sunday, the day Cesar had appointed to conclude the affair of the lands about the Madeleine, Monsieur and Madame Ragon, and uncle Pillerault arrived about four o’clock, just after vespers. In view of the demolition that was going on, so Cesar said, he could only invite Charles Claparon, Crottat, and Roguin. The notary brought with him the “Journal des Debats” in which Monsieur de la Billardiere had inserted the following article:—

“How well they write nowadays,” cried Cesar. “They are talking about us in the papers,” he said to Pillerault.

“Well, what of it?” answered his uncle, who had a special antipathy to the “Journal des Debats.”

“That article may help to sell the Paste of Sultans and the Carminative Balm,” whispered Madame Cesar to Madame Ragon, not sharing the intoxication of her husband.

Madame Ragon, a tall woman, dry and wrinkled, with a pinched nose and thin lips, bore a spurious resemblance to a marquise of the old court. The circles round her eyes had spread to a wide circumference, like those of elderly women who have known sorrow. The severe and dignified, although affable, expression of her countenance inspired respect. She had, withal, a certain oddity about her, which excited notice, but never ridicule; and this was exhibited in her dress and habits. She wore mittens, and carried in all weathers a cane sunshade, like that used by Queen Marie-Antoinette at Trianon; her gown (the favorite color was pale-brown, the shade of dead leaves) fell from her hips in those inimitable folds the secret of which the dowagers of the olden time have carried away with them. She retained the black mantilla trimmed with black lace woven in large square meshes; her caps, old-fashioned in shape, had the quaint charm which we see in silhouettes relieved against a white background. She took snuff with exquisite nicety and with the gestures which young people of the present day who have had the happiness of seeing their grandmothers and great-aunts replacing their gold snuff-boxes solemnly on the tables beside them, and shaking off the grains which strayed upon their kerchiefs, will doubtless remember.

The Sieur Ragon was a little man, not over five feet high, with a face like a nut-cracker, in which could be seen only two eyes, two sharp cheek-bones, a nose and a chin. Having no teeth he swallowed half his words, though his style of conversation was effluent, gallant, pretentious, and smiling, with the smile he formerly wore when he received beautiful great ladies at the door of his shop. Powder, well raked off, defined upon his cranium a nebulous half-circle, flanked by two pigeon-wings, divided by a little queue tied with a ribbon. He wore a bottle-blue coat, a white waistcoat, small-clothes and silk stockings, shoes with gold buckles, and black silk gloves. The most marked feature of his behavior was his habit of going through the street holding his hat in his hand. He looked like a messenger of the Chamber of Peers, or an usher of the king’s bedchamber, or any of those persons placed near to some form of power from which they get a reflected light, though of little account themselves.

“Well, Birotteau,” he said, with a magisterial air, “do you repent, my boy, for having listened to us in the old times? Did we ever doubt the gratitude of our beloved sovereigns?”

“You have been very happy, dear child,” said Madame Ragon to Madame Birotteau.

“Yes, indeed,” answered Constance, always under the spell of the cane parasol, the butterfly cap, the tight sleeves, and the great kerchief a la Julie which Madame Ragon wore.

“Cesarine is charming. Come here, my love,” said Madame Ragon, in her shrill voice and patronizing manner.

“Shall we do the business before dinner?” asked uncle Pillerault.

“We are waiting for Monsieur Claparon,” said Roguin, “I left him dressing himself.”

“Monsieur Roguin,” said Cesar, “I hope you told him that we should dine in a wretched little room on the entresol—”

“He thought it superb sixteen years ago,” murmured Constance.

“—among workmen and rubbish.”

“Bah! you will find him a good fellow, with no pretension,” said Roguin.

“I have put Raguet on guard in the shop. We can’t go through our own door; everything is pulled down.”

“Why did you not bring your nephew?” said Pillerault to Madame Ragon.

“Shall we not see him?” asked Cesarine.

“No, my love,” said Madame Ragon; “Anselme, dear boy, is working himself to death. That bad-smelling Rue des Cinq-Diamants, without sun and without air, frightens me. The gutter is always blue or green or black. I am afraid he will die of it. But when a young man has something in his head—” and she looked at Cesarine with a gesture which explained that the word head meant heart.

“Has he got his lease?” asked Cesar.

“Yesterday, before a notary,” replied Ragon. “He took the place for eighteen years, but they exacted six months’ rent in advance.”

“Well, Monsieur Ragon, are you satisfied with me?” said the perfumer. “I have given him the secret of a great discovery—”

“We know you by heart, Cesar,” said little Ragon, taking Cesar’s hands and pressing them with religious friendship.

Roguin was not without anxiety as to Claparon’s entrance on the scene; for his tone and manners were quite likely to alarm these virtuous and worthy people; he therefore thought it advisable to prepare their minds.

“You are going to see,” he said to Pillerault and the two ladies, “a thorough original, who hides his methods under a fearfully bad style of manners; from a very inferior position he has raised himself up by intelligence. He will acquire better manners through his intercourse with bankers. You may see him on the boulevard, or on a cafe tippling, disorderly, betting at billiards, and think him a mere idler; but he is not; he is thinking and studying all the time to keep industry alive by new projects.”

“I understand that,” said Birotteau; “I got my great ideas when sauntering on the boulevard; didn’t I, Mimi?”

“Claparon,” resumed Roguin, “makes up by night-work the time lost in looking about him in the daytime, and watching the current of affairs. All men of great talent lead curious lives, inexplicable lives; well, in spite of his desultory ways he attains his object, as I can testify. In this instance he has managed to make the owners of these lands give way: they were unwilling, doubtful, timid; he fooled them all, tired them out, went to see them every day,—and here we are, virtually masters of the property.”

At this moment a curious broum! broum! peculiar to tipplers of brandy and other liquors, announced the arrival of the most fantastic personage of our story, and the arbiter in flesh and blood of the future destinies of Cesar Birotteau. The perfumer rushed headlong to the little dark staircase, as much to tell Raguet to close the shop as to pour out his excuses to Claparon for receiving him in the dining-room.

“What of that? It’s the very place to juggle a—I mean to settle a piece of business.”

In spite of Roguin’s clever precautions, Monsieur and Madame Ragon, people of old-fashioned middle-class breeding, the observer Pillerault, Cesarine, and her mother were disagreeably impressed at first sight by this sham banker of high finance.

About twenty-eight years of age at the time of which we write, the late commercial traveller possessed not a hair on his head, and wore a wig curled in ringlets. This head-gear needed, by rights, a virgin freshness, a lacteal purity of complexion, and all the softer corresponding graces: as it was, however, it threw into ignoble relief a pimpled face, brownish-red in color, inflamed like that of the conductor of a diligence, and seamed with premature wrinkles, which betrayed in the puckers of their deep-cut lines a licentious life, whose misdeeds were still further evidenced by the badness of the man’s teeth, and the black speckles which appeared here and there on his corrugated skin. Claparon had the air of a provincial comedian who knows all the roles, and plays the clown with a wink; his cheeks, where the rouge never stuck, were jaded by excesses, his lips clammy, though his tongue was forever wagging, especially when he was drunk; his glances were immodest, and his gestures compromising. Such a face, flushed with the jovial features of punch, was enough to turn grave business matters into a farce; so that the embryo banker had been forced to put himself through a long course of mimicry before he managed to acquire even the semblance of a manner that accorded with his fictitious importance.

Du Tillet assisted in dressing him for this occasion, like the manager of a theatre who is uneasy about the debut of his principal actor; he feared lest the vulgar habits of this devil-may-care life should crop up to the surface of the newly-fledged banker. “Talk as little as you can,” he said to him. “No banker ever gabbles; he acts, thinks, reflects, listens, weighs. To seem like a banker you must say nothing, or, at any rate, mere nothings. Check that ribald eye of yours, and look serious, even if you have to look stupid. If you talk politics, go for the government, but keep to generalities. For instance: ‘The budget is heavy’; ‘No compromise is possible between the parties’; ‘The Liberals are dangerous’; ‘The Bourbons must avoid a conflict’; ‘Liberalism is the cloak of a coalition’; ‘The Bourbons are inaugurating an era of prosperity: let us sustain them, even if we do not like them’; ‘France has had enough of politics,’ etc. Don’t gorge yourself at every table where you dine; recollect you are to maintain the dignity of a millionaire. Don’t shovel in your snuff like an old Invalide; toy with your snuff-box, glance often at your feet, and sometimes at the ceiling, before you answer; try to look sagacious, if you can. Above all, get rid of your vile habit of touching everything; in society a banker ought to seem tired of seeing and touching things. Hang it! you are supposed to be passing wakeful nights; finance makes you brusque, so many elements must be brought together to launch an enterprise,—so much study! Remember to take gloomy views of business; it is heavy, dull, risky, unsettled. Now, don’t go beyond that, and mind you specify nothing. Don’t sing those songs of Beranger at table; and don’t get fuddled. If you are drunk, your future is lost. Roguin will keep an eye on you. You are going now among moral people, virtuous people; and you are not to scare them with any of your pot-house principles.”

This lecture produced upon the mind of Charles Claparon very much the effect that his new clothes produced upon his body. The jovial scapegrace, easy-going with all the world, and long used to a comfortable shabbiness, in which his body was no more shackled than his mind was shackled by language, was now encased in the new clothes his tailor had just sent home, rigid as a picket-stake, anxious about his motions as well as about his speech; drawing back his hand when it was imprudently thrust out to grasp a bottle, just as he stopped his tongue in the middle of a sentence. All this presented a laughable discrepancy to the keen observation of Pillerault. Claparon’s red face, and his wig with its profligate ringlets, gave the lie to his apparel and pretended bearing, just as his thoughts clashed and jangled with his speech. But these worthy people ended by crediting such discordances to the preoccupation of his busy mind.

“He is so full of business,” said Roguin.

“Business has given him little education,” whispered Madame Ragon to Cesarine.

Monsieur Roguin overheard her, and put a finger on his lips:—

“He is rich, clever, and extremely honorable,” he said, stooping to Madame Ragon’s ear.

“Something may be forgiven in consideration of such qualities,” said Pillerault to Ragon.

“Let us read the deeds before dinner,” said Roguin; “we are all alone.”

Madame Ragon, Cesarine, and Constance left the contracting parties to listen to the deeds read over to them by Alexandre Crottat. Cesar signed, in favor of one of Roguin’s clients, a mortgage bond for forty thousand francs, on his grounds and manufactories in the Faubourg du Temple; he turned over to Roguin Pillerault’s cheque on the Bank of France, and gave, without receipt, bills for twenty thousand francs from his current funds, and notes for one hundred and forty thousand francs payable to the order of Claparon.

“I have no receipt to give you,” said Claparon; “you deal, for your half of the property, with Monsieur Roguin, as I do for ours. The sellers will get their pay from him in cash; all that I engage to do is to see that you get the equivalent of the hundred and forty thousand francs paid to my order.”

“That is equitable,” said Pillerault.

“Well, gentlemen, let us call in the ladies; it is cold without them,” said Claparon, glancing at Roguin, as if to ask whether that jest were too broad.

“Ladies! Ah! mademoiselle is doubtless yours,” said Claparon, holding himself very straight and looking at Birotteau; “hey! you are not a bungler. None of the roses you distil can be compared with her; and perhaps it is because you have distilled roses that—”

“Faith!” said Roguin, interrupting him, “I am very hungry.”

“Let us go to dinner,” said Birotteau.

“We shall dine before a notary,” said Claparon, catching himself up.

“You do a great deal of business?” said Pillerault, seating himself intentionally next to Claparon.

“Quantities; by the gross,” answered the banker. “But it is all heavy, dull; there are risks, canals. Oh, canals! you have no idea how canals occupy us; it is easy to explain. Government needs canals. Canals are a want especially felt in the departments; they concern commerce, you know. ‘Rivers,’ said Pascal, ‘are walking markets.’ We must have markets. Markets depend on embankments, tremendous earth-works; earth-works employ the laboring-classes; hence loans, which find their way back, in the end, to the pockets of the poor. Voltaire said, ‘Canaux, canards, canaille!’ But the government has its own engineers; you can’t get a finger in the matter unless you get on the right side of them; for the Chamber,—oh, monsieur, the Chamber does us all the harm in the world! It won’t take in the political question hidden under the financial question. There’s bad faith on one side or the other. Would you believe it? there’s Keller in the Chamber: now Francois Keller is an orator, he attacks the government about the budget, about canals. Well, when he gets home to the bank, and we go to him with proposals, canals, and so forth, the sly dog is all the other way: everything is right; we must arrange it with the government which he has just been been impudently attacking. The interests of the orator and the interests of the banker clash; we are between two fires! Now, you understand how it is that business is risky; we have got to please everybody,—clerks, chambers, antechambers, ministers—”

“Ministers?” said Pillerault, determined to get to the bottom of this co-associate.

“Yes, monsieur, ministers.”

“Well, then the newspapers are right?” said Pillerault.

“There’s my uncle talking politics,” said Birotteau. “Monsieur Claparon has won his heart.”

“Devilish rogues, the newspapers,” said Claparon. “Monsieur, the newspapers do all the mischief. They are useful sometimes, but they keep me awake many a night. I wish they didn’t. I have put my eyes out reading and ciphering.”

“To go back to the ministers,” said Pillerault, hoping for revelations.

“Ministers are a mere necessity of government. Ah! what am I eating? ambrosia?” said Claparon, breaking off. “This is a sauce you’ll never find except at a tradesman’s table, for the pot-houses—”

Here the flowers in Madame Ragon’s cap skipped like young rams. Claparon perceived the word was low, and tried to catch himself up.

“In bank circles,” he said, “we call the best cafes.—Very, and the Freres Provencaux,—pot-houses in jest. Well, neither those infamous pot-houses nor our most scientific cooks can make us a sauce like this; mellifluous! Some give you clear water soured with lemon, and the rest drugs, chemicals.”

Pillerault tried throughout the dinner to fathom this extraordinary being; finding only a void, he began to think him dangerous.

“All’s well,” whispered Roguin to Claparon.

“I shall get out of these clothes to-night, at any rate,” answered Claparon, who was choking.

“Monsieur,” said Cesar, addressing him, “we are compelled to dine in this little room because we are preparing, eighteen days hence, to assemble our friends, as much to celebrate the emancipation of our territory—”

“Right, monsieur; I myself am for the government. I belong, in opinion, to the statu quo of the great man who guides the destinies of the house of Austria, jolly dog! Hold fast that you may acquire; and, above all, acquire that you may hold. Those are my opinions, which I have the honor to share with Prince Metternich.”

“—as to commemorate my promotion to the order of the Legion of honor,” continued Cesar.

“Yes, I know. Who told me of that,—the Kellers, or Nucingen?”

Roguin, surprised at such tact, made an admiring gesture.

“No, no; it was in the Chamber.”

“In the Chamber? was it Monsieur de la Billardiere?” said Birotteau.

“Precisely.”

“He is charming,” whispered Cesar to his uncle.

“He pours out phrases, phrases, phrases,” said Pillerault, “enough to drown you.”

“Possibly I showed myself worthy of this signal, royal favor,—” resumed Birotteau.

“By your labors in perfumery; the Bourbons know how to reward all merit. Ah! let us support those generous princes, to whom we are about to owe unheard-of prosperity. Believe me, the Restoration feels that it must run a tilt against the Empire; the Bourbons have conquests to make, the conquests of peace. You will see their conquests!”

“Monsieur will perhaps do us the honor to be present at our ball?” said Madame Cesar.

“To pass an evening with you, Madame, I would sacrifice the making of millions.”

“He certainly does chatter,” said Cesar to his uncle.

While the declining glory of perfumery was about to send forth its setting rays, a star was rising with feeble light upon the commercial horizon. Anselme Popinot was laying the corner-stone of his fortune in the Rue des Cinq-Diamants. This narrow little street, where loaded wagons can scarcely pass each other, runs from the Rue des Lombards at one end, to the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher at the other, entering the latter opposite to the Rue Quincampoix, that famous thoroughfare of old Paris where French history has so often been enacted. In spite of this disadvantage, the congregation of druggists in that neighborhood made Popinot’s choice of the little street a good one. The house, which stands second from the Rue des Lombards, was so dark that except at certain seasons it was necessary to use lights in open day. The embryo merchant had taken possession, the preceding evening, of the dingy and disgusting premises. His predecessor, who sold molasses and coarse sugars, had left the stains of his dirty business upon the walls, in the court, in the store-rooms. Imagine a large and spacious shop, with great iron-bound doors, painted a dragon-green, strengthened with long iron bars held on by nails whose heads looked like mushrooms, and covered with an iron trellis-work, which swelled out at the bottom after the fashion of the bakers’-shops in former days; the floor paved with large white stones, most of them broken, the walls yellow, and as bare as those of a guard-room. Next to the shop came the back-shop, and two other rooms lighted from the street, in which Popinot proposed to put his office, his books, and his own workroom. Above these rooms were three narrow little chambers pushed up against the party-wall, with an outlook into the court; here he intended to dwell. The three rooms were dilapidated, and had no view but that of the court, which was dark, irregular, and surrounded by high walls, to which perpetual dampness, even in dry weather, gave the look of being daubed with fresh plaster. Between the stones of this court was a filthy and stinking black substance, left by the sugars and the molasses that once occupied it. Only one of the bedrooms had a chimney, all the walls were without paper, and the floors were tiled with brick.

Since early morning Gaudissart and Popinot, helped by a journeyman whose services the commercial traveller had invoked, were busily employed in stretching a fifteen-sous paper on the walls of these horrible rooms, the workman pasting the lengths. A collegian’s mattress on a bedstead of red wood, a shabby night-stand, an old-fashioned bureau, one table, two armchairs, and six common chairs, the gift of Popinot’s uncle the judge, made up the furniture. Gaudissart had decked the chimney-piece with a frame in which was a mirror much defaced, and bought at a bargain. Towards eight o’clock in the evening the two friends, seated before the fireplace where a fagot of wood was blazing, were about to attack the remains of their breakfast.

“Down with the cold mutton!” cried Gaudissart, suddenly, “it is not worthy of such a housewarming.”

“But,” said Popinot, showing his solitary coin of twenty francs, which he was keeping to pay for the prospectus, “I—”

“I—” cried Gaudissart, sticking a forty-franc piece in his own eye.

A knock resounded throughout the court, naturally empty and echoing of a Sunday, when the workpeople were away from it and the laboratories empty.

“Here comes the faithful slave of the Rue de la Poterie!” cried the illustrious Gaudissart.

Sure enough, a waiter entered, followed by two scullions bearing in three baskets a dinner, and six bottles of wine selected with discernment.

“How shall we ever eat it all up?” said Popinot.

“The man of letters!” cried Gaudissart, “don’t forget him. Finot loves the pomps and the vanities; he is coming, the innocent boy, armed with a dishevelled prospectus—the word is pat, hein? Prospectuses are always thirsty. We must water the seed if we want flowers. Depart, slaves!” he added, with a gorgeous air, “there is gold for you.”

He gave them ten sous with a gesture worthy of Napoleon, his idol.

“Thank you, Monsieur Gaudissart,” said the scullions, better pleased with the jest than with the money.

“As for you, my son,” he said to the waiter, who stayed to serve the dinner, “below is a porter’s wife; she lives in a lair where she sometimes cooks, as in other days Nausicaa washed, for pure amusement. Find her, implore her goodness; interest her, young man, in the warmth of these dishes. Tell her she shall be blessed, and above all, respected, most respected, by Felix Gaudissart, son of Jean-Francois Gaudissart, grandson of all the Gaudissarts, vile proletaries of ancient birth, his forefathers. March! and mind that everything is hot, or I’ll deal retributive justice by a rap on your knuckles!”

Another knock sounded.

“Here comes the pungent Andoche!” shouted Gaudissart.

A stout, chubby-faced fellow of medium height, from head to foot the evident son of a hat-maker, with round features whose shrewdness was hidden under a restrained and subdued manner, suddenly appeared. His face, which was melancholy, like that of a man weary of poverty, lighted up hilariously when he caught sight of the table, and the bottles swathed in significant napkins. At Gaudissart’s shout, his pale-blue eyes sparkled, his big head, hollowed like that of a Kalmuc Tartar, bobbed from right to left, and he bowed to Popinot with a queer manner, which meant neither servility nor respect, but was rather that of a man who feels he is not in his right place and will make no concessions. He was just beginning to find out that he possessed no literary talent whatever; he meant to stay in the profession, however, by living on the brains of others, and getting astride the shoulders of those more able than himself, making his profit there instead of struggling any longer at his own ill-paid work. At the present moment he had drunk to the dregs the humiliation of applications and appeals which constantly failed, and he was now, like people in the higher walks of finance, about to change his tone and become insolent, advisedly. But he needed a small sum in hand on which to start, and Gaudissart gave him a share in the present affair of ushering into the world the oil of Popinot.

“You are to negotiate on his account with the newspapers. But don’t play double; if you do I’ll fight you to the death. Give him his money’s worth.”

Popinot gazed at “the author” which much uneasiness. People who are purely commercial look upon an author with mingled sentiments of fear, compassion, and curiosity. Though Popinot had been well brought up, the habits of his relations, their ideas, and the obfuscating effect of a shop and a counting-room, had lowered his intelligence by bending it to the use and wont of his calling,—a phenomenon which may often be seen if we observe the transformations which take place in a hundred comrades, when ten years supervene between the time when they leave college or a public school, to all intents and purposes alike, and the period when they meet again after contact with the world. Andoche accepted Popinot’s perturbation as a compliment.

“Now then, before dinner, let’s get to the bottom of the prospectus; then we can drink without an afterthought,” said Gaudissart. “After dinner one reads askew; the tongue digests.”

“Monsieur,” said Popinot, “a prospectus is often a fortune.”

“And for plebeians like myself,” said Andoche, “fortune is nothing more than a prospectus.”

“Ha, very good!” cried Gaudissart, “that rogue of a Finot has the wit of the forty Academicians.”

“Of a hundred Academicians,” said Popinot, bewildered by these ideas.

The impatient Gaudissart seized the manuscript and began to read in a loud voice, with much emphasis, “CEPHALIC OIL.”

“I should prefer Oil Cesarienne,” said Popinot.

“My friend,” said Gaudissart, “you don’t know the provincials; there’s a surgical operation called by that name, and they are such stupids that they’ll think your oil is meant to facilitate childbirth. To drag them back from that to hair is beyond even my powers of persuasion.”

“Without wishing to defend my term,” said the author, “I must ask you to observe that ‘Cephalic Oil’ means oil for the head, and sums up your ideas in one word.”

“Well, let us see,” said Popinot impatiently.

Here follows the prospectus; the same which the trade receives, by the thousand, to the present day (another piece justificative):—

“My dear friend,” said the illustrious Gaudissart to Finot, “it is admirably written. Thunder and lightning! we are in the upper regions of science. We shirk nothing; we go straight to the point. That’s useful literature; I congratulate you.”

“A noble prospectus!” cried Popinot, enthusiastically.

“A prospectus which slays Macassar at the first word,” continued Gaudissart, rising with a magisterial air to deliver the following speech, which he divided by gestures and pauses in his most parliamentary manner.

“No—hair—can be made—to grow! Hair cannot be dyed without—danger! Ha! ha! success is there. Modern science is in union with the customs of the ancients. We can deal with young and old alike. We can say to the old man, ‘Ha, monsieur! the ancients, the Greeks and Romans, knew a thing or two, and were not so stupid as some would have us believe’; and we can say to the young man, ‘My dear boy, here’s another discovery due to progress and the lights of science. We advance; what may we not obtain from steam and telegraphy, and other things! This oil is based on the scientific treatise of Monsieur Vauquelin!’ Suppose we print an extract from Monsieur Vauquelin’s report to the Academy of Sciences, confirming our statement, hein? Famous! Come, Finot, sit down; attack the viands! Soak up the champagne! let us drink to the success of my young friend, here present!”

“I felt,” said the author modestly, “that the epoch of flimsy and frivolous prospectuses had gone by; we are entering upon an era of science; we need an academical tone,—a tone of authority, which imposes upon the public.”

“We’ll boil that oil; my feet itch, and my tongue too. I’ve got commissions from all the rival hair people; none of them give more than thirty per cent discount; we must manage forty on every hundred remitted, and I’ll answer for a hundred thousand bottles in six months. I’ll attack apothecaries, grocers, perfumers! Give ‘em forty per cent, and they’ll bamboozle the public.”

The three young fellows devoured their dinner like lions, and drank like lords to the future success of Cephalic Oil.

“The oil is getting into my head,” said Finot.

Gaudissart poured out a series of jokes and puns upon hats and heads, and hair and hair-oil, etc. In the midst of Homeric laughter a knock resounded, and was heard, in spite of an uproar of toasts and reciprocal congratulations.

“It is my uncle!” cried Popinot. “He has actually come to see me.”

“An uncle!” said Finot, “and we haven’t got a glass!”

“The uncle of my friend Popinot is a judge,” said Gaudissart to Finot, “and he is not to be hoaxed; he saved my life. Ha! when one gets to the pass where I was, under the scaffold—Qou-ick, and good-by to your hair,”—imitating the fatal knife with voice and gesture. “One recollects gratefully the virtuous magistrate who saved the gutter where the champagne flows down. Recollect?—I’d recollect him dead-drunk! You don’t know what it is, Finot, unless you have stood in need of Monsieur Popinot. Huzza! we ought to fire a salute—from six pounders, too!”

The virtuous magistrate was now asking for his nephew at the door. Recognizing his voice, Anselme went down, candlestick in hand, to light him up.

“I wish you good evening, gentlemen,” said the judge.

The illustrious Gaudissart bowed profoundly. Finot examined the magistrate with a tipsy eye, and thought him a bit of a blockhead.

“You have not much luxury here,” said the judge, gravely, looking round the room. “Well, my son, if we wish to be something great, we must begin by being nothing.”

“What profound wisdom!” said Gaudissart to Finot.

“Text for an article,” said the journalist.

“Ah! you here, monsieur?” said the judge, recognizing the commercial traveller; “and what are you doing now?”

“Monsieur, I am contributing to the best of my small ability to the success of your dear nephew. We have just been studying a prospectus for his oil; you see before you the author of that prospectus, which seems to us the finest essay in the literature of wigs.” The judge looked at Finot. “Monsieur,” said Gaudissart, “is Monsieur Andoche Finot, a young man distinguished in literature, who does high-class politics and the little theatres in the government newspapers,—I may say a statesman on the high-road to becoming an author.”

Finot pulled Gaudissart by the coat-tails.

“Well, well, my sons,” said the judge, to whom these words explained the aspect of the table, where there stilled remained the tokens of a very excusable feast. “Anselme,” said the old gentleman to his nephew, “dress yourself, and come with me to Monsieur Birotteau’s, where I have a visit to pay. You shall sign the deed of partnership, which I have carefully examined. As you mean to have the manufactory for your oil on the grounds in the Faubourg du Temple, I think you had better take a formal lease of them. Monsieur Birotteau might have others in partnership with him, and it is better to settle everything legally at once; then there can be no discussion. These walls seem to me very damp, my dear boy; take up the straw matting near your bed.”

“Permit me, monsieur,” said Gaudissart, with an ingratiating air, “to explain to you that we have just pasted up the paper ourselves, and that’s the—reason why—the walls—are not—dry.”

“Economy? quite right,” said the judge.

“Look here,” said Gaudissart in Finot’s ear, “my friend Popinot is a virtuous young man; he is going with his uncle; let’s you and I go and finish the evening with our cousins.”

The journalist showed the empty lining of his pockets. Popinot saw the gesture, and slipped his twenty-franc piece into the palm of the author of the prospectus.

The judge had a coach at the end of the street, in which he carried off his nephew to the Birotteaus.