“Shall I have to wait long?”

“Long enough for me to send to the bank.”

Then turning his back on the iron-founder, M. Fauvel said to his cashier: 

“Write and send as quickly as possible to the bank an order for three hundred thousand francs.  Let the messenger take a carriage.”

Prosper remained motionless.

“Do you hear me?” said the banker angrily.

The cashier trembled; he seemed as if trying to shake off a terrible nightmare.

“It is useless to send,” he said in a measured tone; “we owe this gentleman three hundred thousand francs, and we have less than one hundred thousand in the bank.”

M. de Clameran evidently expected this answer, for he muttered: 

“Naturally.”

Although he pronounced this word, his voice, his manner, his face clearly said: 

“This comedy is well acted; but nevertheless it is a comedy, and I don’t intend to be duped by it.”

Alas!  After Prosper’s answer, and the iron-founder’s coarsely expressed opinion, the clerks knew not what to think.

The fact was, that Paris had just been startled by several financial crashes.  The thirst for speculation caused the oldest and most reliable houses to totter.  Men of the most unimpeachable honor had to sacrifice their pride, and go from door to door imploring aid.

Credit, that rare bird of security and peace, rested with none, but stood with upraised wings, ready to fly off at the first rumor of suspicion.

Therefore this idea of a comedy arranged beforehand between the banker and his cashier might readily occur to the minds of people who, if not suspicious, were at least aware of all the expedients resorted to by speculators in order to gain time, which with them often meant salvation.

M. Fauvel had had too much experience not to instantly divine the impression produced by Prosper’s answer; he read the most mortifying doubt on the faces around him.

“Oh! don’t be alarmed, monsieur,” said he to M. de Clameran, “this house has other resources.  Be kind enough to await my return.”

He left the room, went up the narrow steps leading to his study, and in a few minutes returned, holding in his hand a letter and a bundle of securities.

“Here, quick, Couturier!” he said to one of his clerks, “take my carriage, which is waiting at the door, and go with monsieur to M. de Rothschild’s.  Hand him this letter and these securities; in exchange, you will receive three hundred thousand francs, which you will hand to this gentleman.”

The iron-founder was visibly disappointed; he seemed desirous of apologizing for his impertinence.

“I assure you, monsieur, that I had no intention of giving offence.  Our relations, for some years, have been such that I hope—­”

“Enough, monsieur,” interrupted the banker, “I desire no apologies.  In business, friendship counts for nothing.  I owe you money:  I am not ready to pay:  you are pressing:  you have a perfect right to demand what is your own.  Follow my clerk:  he will pay you your money.”