“What do they mean? Prudent! I don't understand. Don't the figures show the constant progression of our business? At first, with a capital of five hundred thousand francs, I did business to the extent of two millions, turning the capital over four times. It then became four million francs, which, turned over ten times, has produced business to the extent of forty millions. In short, after successive increases, I have just learnt, from the last stock-taking, that the amount of business done now amounts to a total of eighty millions; thus the capital, only slightly increased--for it does not exceed six millions--has passed over our counters in the form of more than twelve times.” He raised his voice, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the palm of his left hand, knocking down these millions as he would have cracked a few nuts. The baron interrupted him. “I know, I know. But you don't hope to keep on increasing in this way, do you?” “Why not?” asked Mouret, ingenuously. “There's no reason why it should stop. The capital can be turned over as often as fifteen times. I predicted as much long ago. In certain departments it can be turned over twenty-five or thirty times. And after? well! after, we'll find a means of turning it over more than that.” “So you'll finish by drinking up all the money in Paris, as you'd drink a glass of water?” “Most decidedly. Doesn't Paris belong to the women, and don't the women belong to us?” The baron laid his hands on Mouret's shoulders, looking at him with a paternal air. “Listen, you're a fine fellow, and I am really fond of you. There's no resisting you. We'll go into the matter seriously, and I hope to make them listen to reason. Up to the present, we are perfectly satisfied with you. Your dividends astonish the Bourse. You must be right; it will be better to put more money into your business, than to risk this competition with the Grand Hôtel, which is hazardous.” Mouret's excitement subsided at once; he thanked the baron, but without any of his usual enthusiasm; and the latter saw him turn his eyes towards the door of the next room, again seized with the secret anxiety which he was concealing. However, De Vallagnosc had come up, understanding that they had finished talking business. He stood close to them, listening to the baron, who was murmuring with the gallant air of an old man who had seen life: “I say, I fancy they're taking their revenge.” “Who?” asked Mouret, embarrassed. “Why, the women. They're getting tired of belonging to you; you now belong to them, my dear fellow; it's only just!” He joked him, well aware of the young man's notorious love affairs: the mansion bought for the actress, the enormous sums squandered with girls picked up in private supper rooms, amused him as an excuse for the follies he had formerly committed himself. His old experience rejoiced. “Really, I don't understand,” repeated Mouret.