hose of loyalty and of
truth--are essential, not only to us, but to our subordinates, if we
are to succeed in making even a small competence out of it.

Now let me give you an instance. Here was I, Hector Ratichon, settled
in Paris in that eventful year 1816 which saw the new order of things
finally swept aside and the old order resume its triumphant sway,
which saw us all, including our God-given King Louis XVIII, as poor as
the proverbial church mice and as eager for a bit of comfort and
luxury as a hungry dog is for a bone; the year which saw the army
disbanded and hordes of unemployed and unemployable men wandering
disconsolate and half starved through the country seeking in vain for
some means of livelihood, while the Allied troops, well fed and well
clothed, stalked about as if the sacred soil of France was so much
dirt under their feet; the year, my dear Sir, during which more
intrigues were hatched and more plots concocted than in any previous
century in the whole history of France. We were all trying to make
money, since there was so precious little of it about. Those of us who
had brains succeeded, and then not always.

Now, I had brains--I do not boast of them; they are a gift from
Heaven--but I had them, and good looks, too, and a general air of
strength, coupled with refinement, which was bound to appeal to anyone
needing help and advice, and willing to pay for both, and yet--but you
shall judge.

You know my office in the Rue Daunou, you have been in it--plainly
furnished; but, as I said, these were not days of luxury. There was an
antechamber, too, where that traitor, blackmailer and thief, Theodore,
my confidential clerk in those days, lodged at my expense and kept
importunate clients at bay for what was undoubtedly a liberal
salary--ten per cent, on all the profits of the business--and yet he
was always complaining, the ungrateful, avaricious brute!

Well, Sir, on that day in September--it was the tenth, I
remember--1816, I must confess that I was feeling exceedingly
dejected. Not one client for the last three weeks, half a franc in my
pocket, and nothing but a small quarter of Strasburg patty in the
larder. Theodore had eaten most of it, and I had just sent him out to
buy two sous' worth of stale bread wherewith to finish the remainder.
But after that? You will admit, Sir, that a less buoyant spirit would
not have remained so long undaunted.

I was just cursing that lout Theodore inwardly, for he