Etienne and Lucien betook themselves to the Quai Saint-Michel, and found Chaboisseau in a little house with a passage entry.  Chaboisseau, a bill-discounter, whose dealings were principally with the book trade, lived in a second-floor lodging furnished in the most eccentric manner.  A brevet-rank banker and millionaire to boot, he had a taste for the classical style.  The cornice was in the classical style; the bedstead, in the purest classical taste, dated from the time of the Empire, when such things were in fashion; the purple hangings fell over the wall like the classic draperies in the background of one of David’s pictures.  Chairs and tables, lamps and sconces, and every least detail had evidently been sought with patient care in furniture warehouses.  There was the elegance of antiquity about the classic revival as well as its fragile and somewhat arid grace.  The man himself, like his manner of life, was in grotesque contrast with the airy mythological look of his rooms; and it may be remarked that the most eccentric characters are found among men who give their whole energies to money-making.

Men of this stamp are, in a certain sense, intellectual libertines.  Everything is within their reach, consequently their fancy is jaded, and they will make immense efforts to shake off their indifference.  The student of human nature can always discover some hobby, some accessible weakness and sensitive spot in their heart.  Chaboisseau might have entrenched himself in antiquity as in an impregnable camp.

“The man will be an antique to match, no doubt,” said Etienne, smiling.

Chaboisseau, a little old person with powdered hair, wore a greenish coat and snuff-brown waistcoat; he was tricked out besides in black small-clothes, ribbed stockings, and shoes that creaked as he came forward to take the bills.  After a short scrutiny, he returned them to Lucien with a serious countenance.

“MM Fendant and Cavalier are delightful young fellows; they have plenty of intelligence; but, I have no money,” he said blandly.

“My friend here would be willing to meet you in the matter of discount——­” Etienne began.

“I would not take the bills on any consideration,” returned the little broker.  The words slid down upon Lousteau’s suggestion like the blade of the guillotine on a man’s neck.

The two friends withdrew; but as Chaboisseau went prudently out with them across the ante-chamber, Lucien noticed a pile of second-hand books.  Chaboisseau had been in the trade, and this was a recent purchase.  Shining conspicuous among them, he noticed a copy of a work by the architect Ducereau, which gives exceedingly accurate plans of various royal palaces and chateaux in France.

“Could you let me have that book?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Chaboisseau, transformed into a bookseller.

“How much?”

“Fifty francs.”

“It is dear, but I want it.  And I can only pay you with one of the bills which you refuse to take.”