“From a commercial point of view,” he said, “custom does allow the managing-partner to advance a certain sum to the sleeping-partner on the profits of the business, and we are certain to make profits.  After close examination of my affairs I do feel strong enough to pay forty thousand francs in three months.  The known integrity of Monsieur Cesar is a guarantee that he will use that forty thousand to pay off his debts.  Thus the creditors, if there should come a failure, can lay no blame on us.  Besides, uncle, I would rather lose forty thousand francs than lose Cesarine.  At this very moment while I am speaking, she has doubtless been told of my refusal, and will cease to esteem me.  I vowed my blood to my benefactor!  I am like a young sailor who ought to sink with his captain, or a soldier who should die with his general.”

“Good heart and bad merchant, you will never lose my esteem,” said the judge, pressing the hand of his nephew.  “I have thought a great deal of this,” he added.  “I know you love Cesarine devotedly, and I think you can satisfy the claims of love and the claims of commerce.”

“Ah! my uncle, if you have found a way my honor is saved!”

“Advance Birotteau fifty thousand on his share in your oil, which has now become a species of property, reserving to yourself the right of buying it back.  I will draw up the deed.”

Anselme embraced his uncle and rushed home, made notes to the amount of fifty thousand francs, and ran from the Rue des Cinq-Diamants to the Place Vendome, so that just as Cesarine, her mother, and Pillerault were gazing at Cesar, amazed at the sepulchural tone in which he had uttered the word “Ungrateful!” the door of the salon opened and Popinot appeared.

“My dear and beloved master!” he cried, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, “here is what you asked of me!” He held out the notes.  “Yes, I have carefully examined my situation; you need have no fear, I shall be able to pay them.  Save—­save your honor!”

“I was sure of him!” cried Cesarine, seizing Popinot’s hand, and pressing it with convulsive force.

Madame Cesar embraced him; Birotteau rose up like the righteous at the sound of the last trumpet, and issued, as it were, from the tomb.  Then he stretched out a frenzied hand to seize the fifty stamped papers.

“Stop!” said the terrible uncle, Pillerault, snatching the papers from Popinot, “one moment!”

The four individuals present,—­Cesar, his wife, Cesarine, and Popinot, —­bewildered by the action of the old man and by the tone of his voice, saw him tear the papers and fling them in the fire, without attempting to interfere.

“Uncle!”

“Uncle!”

“Uncle!”

“Monsieur!”

Four voices and but one heart; a startling unanimity!  Uncle Pillerault passed his arm round Popinot’s neck, held him to his breast, and kissed him.