'Another bank, my good friend, another bank!' he repeated in his sneering way. But the affair into which I would sooner put my money would be a machine, yes, a guillotine, to cut off the heads of all the banks already established.... A rake, eh? to clean out the Bourse. Your engineer hasn't something of that sort among his papers, has he?' Then, affecting a paternal air, he continued with tranquil cruelty: 'Come, be reasonable; you know what I told you. You are wrong to go into business again; I render you a real service in refusing to launch your syndicate; you will inevitably come to grief, it is mathematically certain, for you are much too enthusiastic, you have too much imagination; and besides, matters always end badly when one deals with other people's money. Why doesn't your brother find you a good post, eh? a prefecture, or else a financial receivership--no, not a receivership, that also is too dangerous. Beware, my good friend, beware.' Saccard had risen, quivering: 'You have made up your mind, then; you won't take any stock, you won't be with us?' 'With you? Never in my life. You will be cleared out within three years.' There was a spell of silence, instinct with conflict; a sharp exchange of defiant glances. 'Then, good afternoon. I have not breakfasted yet, and am very hungry. We shall see who will be cleared out.' And thereupon Saccard left the great financier in the midst of his tribe; and whilst they finished noisily stuffing themselves with pastry, the master went on receiving the last belated brokers, wearily closing his eyes every now and then, and draining his bowl with little sips, his lips all white with milk.