tyle, much used by the
modern school of Shylocks. When not in business, he was a pleasant, and,
as some say, a witty companion. He was not looked on as an ascetic, and
did not despise those little pleasures which enable us to sustain life's
tortuous journey. He liked a good dinner, and had always a smile ready
for a young and attractive face. He was a widower, and all his love
was concentrated on his daughter. He did not keep a very extravagant
establishment, but the report in the neighborhood was that Mademoiselle
Flavia, the daughter of the eminent banker, would one day come into
millions. The banker always did his business on foot, for the sake of
his health, as he said; but Flavia had a sweet little Victoria, drawn
by two thoroughbred horses, to drive in the Bois de Boulogne, under the
protection of an old woman, half companion and half servant, who was
driven half mad by her charge's caprices. As yet her father has never
denied her anything. He worked harder than all his clerks put together,
for, after having spent the morning in his counting house over his
papers, he received all business clients.

On the day after Flavia and Paul Violaine had met at Van Klopen's, M.
Martin Rigal was, at about half-past five, closeted with one of his
female clients. She was young, very pretty, and dressed with simple
elegance, but the expression of her face was profoundly melancholy.
Her eyes were overflowing with tears, which she made vain efforts to
restrain.

"If you refuse to renew our bill, sir, we are ruined," said she. "I
could meet it in January. I have sold all my trinkets, and we are
existing on credit."

"Poor little thing!" interrupted the banker.

Her hopes grew under these words of pity.

"And yet," continued she, "business has never been so brisk. New
customers are constantly coming in, and though our profits are small,
the returns are rapid."

As Martin Rigal heard her exposition of the state of affairs, he nodded
gravely.

"That is all very well," said he at last, "but this does not make the
security you offer me of any more value. I have more confidence in you."

"But remember, sir, that we have thirty thousand francs' worth of
stock."

"That is not what I was alluding to," and the banker accompanied these
words with so meaning a look, that the poor woman blushed scarlet and
almost lost her nerve. "Your stock," said he, "is of no more value in
my eyes than the bill you offer me. Suppose, for instance,