Chaboisseau, a little old person with powdered hair, wore a greenish coat and snuff-brown waistcoat; he was tricked out besides in black small-clothes, ribbed stockings, and shoes that creaked as he came forward to take the bills. After a short scrutiny, he returned them to Lucien with a serious countenance. “MM Fendant and Cavalier are delightful young fellows; they have plenty of intelligence; but, I have no money,” he said blandly. “My friend here would be willing to meet you in the matter of discount——” Étienne began. “I would not take the bills on any consideration,” returned the little broker. The words slid down upon Lousteau’s suggestion like the blade of the guillotine on a man’s neck. The two friends withdrew; but as Chaboisseau went prudently out with them across the ante-chamber, Lucien noticed a pile of second-hand books. Chaboisseau had been in the trade, and this was a recent purchase. Shining conspicuous among them, he noticed a copy of a work by the architect Ducereau, which gives exceedingly accurate plans of various royal palaces and châteaux in France. “Could you let me have that book?” he asked. “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. Étienne and Lucien were still laughing at Chaboisseau, without understanding him, when they reached Dauriat’s shop, and Étienne 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 Poissonnière, 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. The friends took a cab by the hour, and went to the address. “If Samanon won’t take your bills,” Gabusson had said, “nobody else will look at them.”