Banks and banking -- France -- History -- 19th -- Fiction
The panic began that same evening, at the Petite Bourse of eight
o'clock, which was then held upon the footway of the Boulevard des
Italiens, at the entrance of the Passage de l'Opéra; and here only
the _coulissiers_ operated amid an unprepossessing crowd of brokers,
_remisiers_, and shady speculators. Street hawkers moved up and down
and gatherers of cigar-stumps crawled on all fours through the tramping
groups. The Boulevard was quite obstructed by this obstinate mob,
for, although the stream of promenaders occasionally carried it away
and dispersed it, it always formed again. That evening nearly two
thousand persons remained collected there, thanks to the mildness of
the weather, which, with the misty, lowering sky, betokened rain after
the terrible cold. The market was very active; Universals were offered
on all sides, and the quotations fell rapidly. Rumours soon became
current, and anxiety set in. What had happened, then? In an undertone,
folks named the probable vendors, according to the _remisier_ who
gave the order or the _coulissier_ who executed it. If the big-wigs
were selling in this way, something serious was preparing, surely.
And so from eight o'clock until ten there was no end of jostling and
scrambling; all the keen-scented gamblers abandoned their positions;
there were even some who had time to change sides and become 'bears'
instead of 'bulls.' And all went to bed in a fever of uneasiness, as on
the eve of great battles.
The weather was execrable on the following day. It had rained all
night; a fine, cold rain drenched the city, which the thaw changed into
a cloaca of yellow liquid mud. Already, at half-past twelve o'clock,
the Bourse began clamouring in this downpour. Everyone having taken
refuge under the peristyle and in the hall, the crowd was enormous; and
by the dripping from the wet umbrellas the hall itself was soon changed
into an immense puddle of muddy, water. Dampness oozed from the black
filth of the walls, whilst from the glass roof there fell but a dim,
ruddy light, desperately melancholy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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