“Faith, I believe we’re nearer it than you think for, Bartoletti,” answered Malletort, smiling coldly; “though I doubt if you could look to the right point of the compass for it with all your geography. What do you think of the Scotchman’s banking scheme, my gold-seeking friend? Is not Monsieur Las[2] a better alchemist than either of us? Has he not discovered the Great Arcanum? And without fire or bellows, crucible, alembic, or retort? Why, the best of us have used up every metal that the earth produces without arriving—though I grant you we have come very near it—yet without arriving at perfection; and here’s an Englishman only asks for a ton or so of paper, a Government stamp, and—presto!—with a stroke of the pen he turns it all to gold.” “Have you, too, bought Mississippi Stock?” asked the Signor, eagerly. “Then the scheme is prospering; the shares will rise once more. It is good to hold on!” “Not quite such a fool!” answered the Abbé; and Bartoletti’s swarthy face fell several inches, for he had a high opinion of his visitor’s financial perceptions. “And yet the Rue Quincampoix was so thronged yesterday, I was compelled to leave my coach, and bid my lackeys force a passage for me through the crowd,” urged the Signor. “Madame was there, and the Duc du Maine, and more peers of France than you would see at the council. There _must_ be life in it! All the world cannot be dupes. And yet the shares have fallen even since this morning.” “All the world are not likely to be on the winning side,” replied the Abbé, quietly, “or who would be left to pay the stakes? From whom do you suppose Monsieur Las makes his profits? You know he has bought the Hôtel Mazarin. You know he has bought Count de Tessé’s house, furniture, pictures, plate, and all, even to the English carriage-horses that his coachman does not know how to drive. Where do you suppose the money comes from? When a society of people are engaged in eating one another, it seems to me that the emptiest stomach has the best chance.” His listener looked thoughtfully on his scorched, scarred fingers. It might be that he reflected in how many ways he had burnt them. “What do you advise me to do?” he asked, after a pause, during which he had filled and emptied a goblet of the red wine that stood at his elbow. “Realise,” was the answer. “Realise, and without delay. The game is like tennis, and must be played with the same precision. If your ball be not taken at the first rebound, its force is so deadened that your utmost skill falls short of cutting it over the net.”