No sooner was Elie Magus in possession of the four great pictures than he went, taking La Cibot with him, under pretence of settling accounts.  But he pleaded poverty, he found fault with the pictures, they needed rebacking, he offered La Cibot thirty thousand francs by way of commission, and finally dazzled her with the sheets of paper on which the Bank of France engraves the words “One thousand francs” in capital letters.  Magus thereupon condemned Remonencq to pay the like sum to La Cibot, by lending him the money on the security of his four pictures, which he took with him as a guarantee.  So glorious were they, that Magus could not bring himself to part with them, and next day he bought them of Remonencq for six thousand francs over and above the original price, and an invoice was duly made out for the four.  Mme. Cibot, the richer by sixty-eight thousand francs, once more swore her two accomplices to absolute secrecy.  Then she asked the Jew’s advice.  She wanted to invest the money in such a way that no one should know of it.

“Buy shares in the Orleans Railway,” said he; “they are thirty francs below par, you will double your capital in three years.  They will give you scraps of paper, which you keep safe in a portfolio.”

“Stay here, M. Magus.  I will go and fetch the man of business who acts for M. Pons’ family.  He wants to know how much you will give him for the whole bag of tricks upstairs.  I will go for him now.”

“If only she were a widow!” said Remonencq when she was gone.  “She would just suit me; she will have plenty of money now—­”

“Especially if she puts her money into the Orleans Railway; she will double her capital in two years’ time.  I have put all my poor little savings into it,” added the Jew, “for my daughter’s portion.—­Come, let us take a turn on the boulevard until this lawyer arrives.”

“Cibot is very bad as it is,” continued Remonencq; “if it should please God to take him to Himself, I should have a famous wife to keep a shop; I could set up on a large scale—­”

“Good-day, M. Fraisier,” La Cibot began in an ingratiating tone as she entered her legal adviser’s office.  “Why, what is this that your porter has been telling me? are you going to move?”

“Yes, my dear Mme. Cibot.  I am taking the first floor above Dr. Poulain, and trying to borrow two or three thousand francs so as to furnish the place properly; it is very nice, upon my word, the landlord has just papered and painted it.  I am acting, as I told you, in President de Marville’s interests and yours. . . .  I am not a solicitor now; I mean to have my name entered on the roll of barristers, and I must be well lodged.  A barrister in Paris cannot have his name on the rolls unless he has decent furniture and books and the like.  I am a doctor of law, I have kept my terms, and have powerful interest already. . . .  Well, how are we getting on?”

“Perhaps you would accept my savings,” said La Cibot.  “I have put them in a savings bank.  I have not much, only three thousand francs, the fruits of twenty-five years of stinting and scraping.  You might give me a bill of exchange, as Remonencq says; for I am ignorant myself, I only know what they tell me.”