These confidences sobered Lucien.  His first thought was that he had some extremely dangerous friends; his second, that it would be impolitic to break with them; for if Mme. d’Espard, Mme. de Bargeton, and Chatelet should fail to keep their word with him, he might need their terrible power yet.  By this time Etienne and Lucien had reached Barbet’s miserable bookshop on the Quai.  Etienne addressed Barbet: 

“We have five thousand francs’ worth of bills at six, nine, and twelve months, given by Fendant and Cavalier.  Are you willing to discount them for us?”

“I will give you three thousand francs for them,” said Barbet with imperturbable coolness.

“Three thousand francs!” echoed Lucien.

“Nobody else will give you as much,” rejoined the bookseller.  “The firm will go bankrupt before three months are out; but I happen to know that they have some good books that are hanging on hand; they cannot afford to wait, so I shall buy their stock for cash and pay them with their own bills, and get the books at a reduction of two thousand francs.  That’s how it is.”

“Do you mind losing a couple of thousand francs, Lucien?” asked Lousteau.

“Yes!” Lucien answered vehemently.  He was dismayed by this first rebuff.

“You are making a mistake,” said Etienne.

“You won’t find any one that will take their paper,” said Barbet.  “Your book is their last stake, sir.  The printer will not trust them; they are obliged to leave the copies in pawn with him.  If they make a hit now, it will only stave off bankruptcy for another six months, sooner or later they will have to go.  They are cleverer at tippling than at bookselling.  In my own case, their bills mean business; and that being so, I can afford to give more than a professional discounter who simply looks at the signatures.  It is a bill-discounter’s business to know whether the three names on a bill are each good for thirty per cent in case of bankruptcy.  And here at the outset you only offer two signatures, and neither of them worth ten per cent.”

The two journalists exchanged glances in surprise.  Here was a little scrub of a bookseller putting the essence of the art and mystery of bill-discounting in these few words.

“That will do, Barbet,” said Lousteau.  “Can you tell us of a bill-broker that will look at us?”

“There is Daddy Chaboisseau, on the Quai Saint-Michel, you know.  He tided Fendant over his last monthly settlement.  If you won’t listen to my offer, you might go and see what he says to you; but you would only come back to me, and then I shall offer you two thousand francs instead of three.”