"Yes," said Chaboisseau, transformed into a bookseller.
"How much?"
"Fifty francs."
"It is dear, but I want it. And I can only pay you with one of the
bills which you refuse to take."
"You have a bill there for five hundred francs at six months; I will
take that one of you," said Chaboisseau.
Apparently at the last statement of accounts, there had been a balance
of five hundred francs in favor of Fendant and Cavalier.
They went back to the classical department. Chaboisseau made out a
little memorandum, interest so much and commission so much, total
deduction thirty francs, then he subtracted fifty francs for
Ducerceau's book; finally, from a cash-box full of coin, he took four
hundred and twenty francs.
"Look here, though, M. Chaboisseau, the bills are either all of them
good, or all bad alike; why don't you take the rest?"
"This is not discounting; I am paying myself for a sale," said the old
man.
Etienne and Lucien were still laughing at Chaboisseau, without
understanding him, when they reached Dauriat's shop, and Etienne asked
Gabusson to give them the name of a bill-broker. Gabusson thus
appealed to gave them a letter of introduction to a broker in the
Boulevard Poissonniere, telling them at the same time that this was
the "oddest and queerest party" (to use his own expression) that he,
Gabusson, had come across.
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