and matter of them is ludicrous to the last degree.
We can strike him in the very midst of his Lares and Penates, where he
feels himself safest, without so much as mentioning his name; and he
cannot complain, for he lives in fear and terror of his wife. Imagine
his wrath when he sees the first number of a little serial entitled the
_Amours of a Druggist_, and is given fair warning that his love-letters
have fallen into the hands of certain journalists. He talks about the
'little god Cupid,' he tells Florine that she enables him to cross the
desert of life (which looks as if he took her for a camel), and
spells 'never' with two v's. There is enough in that immensely funny
correspondence to bring an influx of subscribers for a fortnight. He
will shake in his shoes lest an anonymous letter should supply his wife
with the key to the riddle. The question is whether Florine will consent
to appear to persecute Matifat. She has some principles, which is to
say, some hopes, still left. Perhaps she means to keep the letters and
make something for herself out of them. She is cunning, as befits
my pupil. But as soon as she finds out that a bailiff is no laughing
matter, or Finot gives her a suitable present or hopes of an engagement,
she will give me the letters, and I will sell them to Finot. Finot will
put the correspondence in his uncle's hands, and Giroudeau will bring
Matifat to terms."

These confidences sobered Lucien. His first thought was that he had some
extremely dangerous friends; his second, that it would be impolitic to
break with them; for if Mme. d'Espard, Mme. de Bargeton, and Chatelet
should fail to keep their word with him, he might need their terrible
power yet. By this time Etienne and Lucien had reached Barbet's
miserable bookshop on the Quai. Etienne addressed Barbet:

"We have five thousand francs' worth of bills at six, nine, and twelve
months, given by Fendant and Cavalier. Are you willing to discount them
for us?"

"I will give you three thousand francs for them," said Barbet with
imperturbable coolness.

"Three thousand francs!" echoed Lucien.

"Nobody else will give you as much," rejoined the bookseller. "The firm
will go bankrupt before three months are out; but I happen to know that
they have some good books that are hanging on hand; they cannot afford
to wait, so I shall buy their stock for cash and pay them with their own
bills, and get the books at a reduction of two thousand francs. That's