“You are worthy of the love of those who have hearts,” he said.  “If you loved a daughter of mine, had she a million and you had nothing but that [pointing to the black ashes of the notes], you should marry her in a fortnight, if she loved you.  Your master,” he said, pointing to Cesar, “is beside himself.  My nephew,” resumed Pillerault, gravely, addressing the poor man,—­“my nephew, away with illusions!  We must do business with francs, not feelings.  All this is noble, but useless.  I spent two hours at the Bourse this afternoon.  You have not one farthing’s credit; every one is talking of your disaster, of your attempts to renew, of your appeals to various bankers, of their refusals, of your follies,—­going up six flights of stairs to beg a gossiping landlord, who chatters like a magpie, to renew a note of twelve hundred francs!—­your ball, given to conceal your embarrassments.  They have gone so far as to say you had no property in Roguin’s hands; according to your enemies, Roguin is only a blind.  A friend of mine, whom I sent about to learn what is going on, confirms what I tell you.  Every one foresees that Popinot will issue notes, and believes that you set him up in business expressly as a last resource.  In short, every calumny or slander which a man brings upon himself when he tries to mount a rung of the social ladder, is going the rounds among business men to-day.  You might hawk about those notes of Popinot in vain; you would meet humiliating refusals; no one would take them; no one could be sure how many such notes you are issuing; every one expects you to sacrifice the poor lad to your own safety.  You would destroy to no purpose the credit of the house of Popinot.  Do you know how much the boldest money-lender would give you for those fifty thousand francs?  Twenty thousand at the most; twenty thousand, do you hear me?  There are crises in business when we must stand up three days before the world without eating, as if we had indigestion, and on the fourth day we may be admitted to the larder of credit.  You cannot live through those three days; and the whole matter lies there.  My poor nephew, take courage! file your schedule, make an assignment.  Here is Popinot, here am I; we will go to work as soon as the clerks have gone to bed, and spare you the agony of it.”

“My uncle!” said Cesar, clasping his hands.

“Cesar, would you choose a shameful failure, in which there are no assets?  Your share in the house of Popinot is all that saves your honor.”

Cesar, awakened by this last and fatal stream of light, saw at length the frightful truth in its full extent; he fell back upon the sofa, from thence to his knees, and his mind seemed to wander; he became like a little child.  His wife thought he was dying.  She knelt down to raise him, but joined her voice to his when she saw him clasp his hands and lift his eyes, and recite, with resigned contrition, in the hearing of his uncle, his daughter, and Popinot, the sublime catholic prayer:—­