“Will you breakfast with me?” said Claparon, recollecting the perfumer’s ball, and thinking to make him a return and also to put him off the scent by this invitation.

Cesar now perceived a round table, hastily cleared of its litter, which bore testimony to the presence of jovial company by a pate, oysters, white wine, and vulgar kidneys, sautes au vin de champagne, sodden in their own sauce.  The light of a charcoal brazier gleamed on an omelette aux truffes.

Two covers and two napkins, soiled by the supper of the previous night, might have enlightened the purest innocence.  Claparon, thinking himself very clever, pressed his invitation in spite of Cesar’s refusal.

“I was to have had a guest, but that guest has disappointed me,” said the crafty traveller, in a voice likely to reach a person buried under coverlets.

“Monsieur,” said Birotteau, “I came solely on business, and I shall not detain you long.”

“I’m used up,” said Claparon, pointing to the desk and the tables piled with documents; “they don’t leave me a poor miserable moment to myself!  I don’t receive people except on Saturdays.  But as for you, my dear friend, I’ll see you at any time.  I haven’t a moment to love or to loaf; I have lost even the inspiration of business; to catch its vim one must have the sloth of ease.  Nobody ever sees me now on the boulevard doing nothing.  Bah!  I’m sick of business; I don’t want to talk about business; I’ve got money enough, but I never can get enough happiness.  My gracious!  I want to travel,—­to see Italy!  Oh, that dear Italy! beautiful in spite of all her reverses! adorable land, where I shall no doubt encounter some angel, complying yet majestic!  I have always loved Italian women.  Did you ever have an Italian woman yourself?  No?  Then come with me to Italy.  We will see Venice, the abode of doges,—­unfortunately fallen into those intelligent Austrian hands that know nothing of art!  Bah! let us get rid of business, canals, loans, and peaceful governments.  I’m a good fellow when I’ve got my pockets lined.  Thunder! let’s travel.”

“One word, monsieur, and I will release you,” said Birotteau.  “You made over my notes to Monsieur Bidault.”

“You mean Gigonnet, that good little Gigonnet, easy-going—­”

“Yes,” said Cesar; “but I wish,—­and here I count upon your honor and delicacy,—­”

Claparon bowed.

“—­to renew those notes.”

“Impossible!” snapped the banker.  “I’m not alone in the matter.  We have met in council,—­regular Chamber; but we all agreed like bacon in a frying-pan.  The devil! we deliberated.  Those lands about the Madeleine don’t amount to anything; we are operating elsewhere.  Hey! my dear sir, if we were not involved in the Champs Elysees and at the Bourse which they are going to finish, and in the quartier Saint-Lazare and at Tivoli, we shouldn’t be, as that fat Nucingen says, in peaseness at all.  What’s the Madeleine to us?—­a midge of a thing.  Pr-r-r!  We don’t play low, my good fellow,” he said, tapping Birotteau on the stomach and catching him round the waist.  “Come, let’s have our breakfast, and talk,” added Claparon, wishing to soften his refusal.