The Minister drummed impatiently on his desk with his five fingers, and looked at Turner sideways beneath his brows. “Royalist plots are common enough,” he said, tentatively, after a pause. “Not a Royalist plot with money in it,” was the retort. “I dare say an honest politician, like yourself, is aware that in France it is always safe to ignore the conspirator who has no money, and always dangerous to treat with contempt him who jingles a purse. There is only a certain amount of money in the world, Monsieur le Ministre, and we bankers usually know where it is. I do not mean the money that the world pours into its own stomach. That is always afloat--changing hands daily. I mean the Great Reserves. We watch those, you understand. And if one of the Great Reserves, or even one of the smaller reserves, moves, we wonder why it is being moved and we nearly always find out.” “One supposes,” said the Minister, hazarding an opinion for the first time, and he gave it with a sidelong glance toward the window, “that it is passing from the hands of a financier possessing money into those of one who has none.” “Precisely. And if a financier possessing money is persuaded to part with it in such a quarter as you suggest, one may conclude that he has good reason to anticipate a substantial return for the loan. You, who are a brilliant collaborateur in the present government, should know that, if any one does, Monsieur le Ministre.” The Minister glanced toward the window, and then gave a good-natured and encouraging laugh, quite unexpectedly, just as if he had been told to do so by the silent man looking down into the street, who may, indeed, have had time to make a gesture. “And,” pursued the banker, “if a financier possessing money parts with it--or, to state the case more particularly, if a financier possessing no money, to my certain knowledge, suddenly raises it from nowhere definite, for the purposes of a Royalist conspiracy, the natural conclusion is that the Royalists have got hold of something good.” John Turner leant back in his chair and suppressed a yawn. “This room is very warm,” he said, producing a pocket-handkerchief. Which was tantamount to a refusal to say more. The Minister twisted the end of his moustache in reflection. It was at this time the fashion in France to wear the moustache waxed. Indeed, men displayed thus their political bias to all whom it might concern. “There remains nothing,” said the official at length, with a gracious smile, “but to ask your terms.” For he who was afterward Napoleon the Third had introduced into French political and social life a plain-spoken cynicism which characterises both to this day.