When they reached the Cafe Themis he told his niece that he alone could manage Gigonnet in the matter they both had in view, and he made her wait in the hackney-coach and bide her time to come forward at the right moment. Elisabeth saw through the window-panes the two faces of Gobseck and Gigonnet (her uncle Bidault), which stood out in relief against the yellow wood-work of the old cafe, like two cameo heads, cold and impassible, in the rigid attitude that their gravity gave them. The two Parisian misers were surrounded by a number of other old faces, on which “thirty per cent discount” was written in circular wrinkles that started from the nose and turned round the glacial cheek-bones. These remarkable physiognomies brightened up on seeing Mitral, and their eyes gleamed with tigerish curiosity. “Hey, hey! it is papa Mitral!” cried one of them, named Chaboisseau, a little old man who discounted for a publisher. “Bless me, so it is!” said another, a broker named Metivier, “ha, that’s an old monkey well up in his tricks.” “And you,” retorted Mitral, “you are an old crow who knows all about carcasses.” “True,” said the stern Gobseck. “What are you here for? Have you come to seize friend Metivier?” asked Gigonnet, pointing to the broker, who had the bluff face of a porter. “Your great-niece Elisabeth is out there, papa Gigonnet,” whispered Mitral. “What! some misfortune?” said Bidault. The old man drew his eyebrows together and assumed a tender look like that of an executioner when about to go to work officially. In spite of his Roman virtue he must have been touched, for his red nose lost somewhat of its color. “Well, suppose it is misfortune, won’t you help Saillard’s daughter?--a girl who has knitted your stockings for the last thirty years!” cried Mitral. “If there’s good security I don’t say I won’t,” replied Gigonnet. “Falleix is in with them. Falleix has just set up his brother as a broker, and he is doing as much business as the Brezacs; and what with? his mind, perhaps! Saillard is no simpleton.” “He knows the value of money,” put in Chaboisseau. That remark, uttered among those old men, would have made an artist and thinker shudder as they all nodded their heads. “But it is none of my business,” resumed Bidault-Gigonnet. “I’m not bound to care for my neighbors’ misfortunes. My principle is never to be off my guard with friends or relatives; you can’t perish except through weakness. Apply to Gobseck; he is softer.” The usurers all applauded these doctrines with a shake of their metallic heads. An onlooker would have fancied he heard the creaking of ill-oiled machinery. “Come, Gigonnet, show a little feeling,” said Chaboisseau, “they’ve knit your stockings for thirty years.” “That counts for something,” remarked Gobseck. “Are you all alone? Is it safe to speak?” said Mitral, looking carefully about him. “I come about a good piece of business.”