Notwithstanding this debauch, the old cloth-merchant was shaving himself at six next morning, put on his maroon-colored coat, of which the glowing lights afforded him perennial enjoyment, fastened a pair of gold buckles on the knee-straps of his ample satin breeches; and then, at about seven o’clock, while all were still sleeping in the house, he made his way to the little office adjoining the shop on the first floor. Daylight came in through a window, fortified by iron bars, and looking out on a small yard surrounded by such black walls that it was very like a well. The old merchant opened the iron-lined shutters, which were so familiar to him, and threw up the lower half of the sash window. The icy air of the courtyard came in to cool the hot atmosphere of the little room, full of the odor peculiar to offices. The merchant remained standing, his hand resting on the greasy arm of a large cane chair lined with morocco, of which the original hue had disappeared; he seemed to hesitate as to seating himself. He looked with affection at the double desk, where his wife’s seat, opposite his own, was fitted into a little niche in the wall. He contemplated the numbered boxes, the files, the implements, the cash box--objects all of immemorial origin, and fancied himself in the room with the shade of Master Chevrel. He even pulled out the high stool on which he had once sat in the presence of his departed master. This stool, covered with black leather, the horse-hair showing at every corner--as it had long done, without, however, coming out--he placed with a shaking hand on the very spot where his predecessor had put it, and then, with an emotion difficult to describe, he pulled a bell, which rang at the head of Joseph Lebas’ bed. When this decisive blow had been struck, the old man, for whom, no doubt, these reminiscences were too much, took up three or four bills of exchange, and looked at them without seeing them. Suddenly Joseph Lebas stood before him. “Sit down there,” said Guillaume, pointing to the stool. As the old master draper had never yet bid his assistant be seated in his presence, Joseph Lebas was startled. “What do you think of these notes?” asked Guillaume. “They will never be paid.” “Why?” “Well, I heard the day before yesterday Etienne and Co. had made their payments in gold.” “Oh, oh!” said the draper. “Well, one must be very ill to show one’s bile. Let us speak of something else.--Joseph, the stock-taking is done.” “Yes, monsieur, and the dividend is one of the best you have ever made.” “Do not use new-fangled words. Say the profits, Joseph. Do you know, my boy, that this result is partly owing to you? And I do not intend to pay you a salary any longer. Madame Guillaume has suggested to me to take you into partnership.--‘Guillaume and Lebas;’ will not that make a good business name? We might add, ‘and Co.’ to round off the firm’s signature.” Tears rose to the eyes of Joseph Lebas, who tried to hide them.