“Are you sure of payment?” asked Eve. She had thought it hopeless to try to sell the business; and now, to her astonishment, a bargain which would have been their salvation three months ago was concluded in this summary fashion. “The money has been deposited with me,” he answered succinctly. “Why, here is magic at work!” said David, and he asked Petit-Claud for an explanation of this piece of luck. “No,” said Petit-Claud, “it is very simple. The merchants in L’Houmeau want a newspaper.” “But I am bound not to publish a paper,” said David. “Yes, you are bound, but is your successor?--However it is,” he continued, “do not trouble yourself at all; sell the business, pocket the proceeds, and leave Cérizet to find his way through the conditions of the sale--he can take care of himself.” “Yes,” said Eve. “And if it turns out that you may not print a newspaper in Angoulême,” said Petit-Claud, “those who are finding the capital for Cérizet will bring out the paper in L’Houmeau.” The prospect of twenty-two thousand francs, of want now at end, dazzled Eve. The partnership and its hopes took a second place. And, therefore, M. and Mme. Séchard gave way on a final point of dispute. The tall Cointet insisted that the patent should be taken out in the name of any one of the partners. What difference could it make? The stout Cointet said the last word. “He is finding the money for the patent; he is bearing the expenses of the journey--another two thousand francs over and above the rest of the expenses. He must take it out in his own name, or we will not stir in the matter.” The lynx gained a victory at all points. The deed of partnership was signed that afternoon at half-past four. The tall Cointet politely gave Mme. Séchard a dozen thread-pattern forks and spoons and a beautiful Ternaux shawl, by way of pin-money, said he, and to efface any unpleasant impression made in the heat of discussion. The copies of the draft had scarcely been made out, Cachan had barely had time to send the documents to Petit-Claud, together with the three unlucky forged bills, when the Séchards heard a deafening rumble in the street, a dray from the Messageries stopped before the door, and Kolb’s voice made the staircase ring again. “Montame! montame! vifteen tausend vrancs, vrom Boidiers” (Poitiers). “Goot money! vrom Monziere Lucien!” “Fifteen thousand francs!” cried Eve, throwing up her arms. “Yes, madame,” said the carman in the doorway, “fifteen thousand francs, brought by the Bordeaux coach, and they didn’t want any more neither! I have two men downstairs bringing up the bags. M. Lucien Chardon de Rubempré is the sender. I have brought up a little leather bag for you, containing five hundred francs in gold, and a letter it’s likely.” Eve thought that she must be dreaming as she read:--