Systematically, resolutely, and in spite of everything, he was doing his best to prevent his brother from urging an introduction. To go and hobnob with the Chambannes and their friends, that would be the last straw! To go there, where he would have to meet Pums, the marquis, perhaps Talloire, who would stupidly come and pat him on the shoulder, compromise him and denounce him with their accomplice-like cordiality, so that M. Raindal would learn of his dealings at the Bourse, his speculating in gold mines! No, thank you! He preferred to lie, to resort to the very worst stratagems, such as simulated spite, false laughter and fictitious anger, rather than fall into this hornet's nest! Therefore, he seized the slightest pretext to deliver his imprecations. "A woman of the world, Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan? A woman of the world, this person who had bolted without warning and left people waiting for her, without giving them a word of apology! A woman of the world, this person who had gone away, no one knew where! A woman of the world, this person...." "Oh please! leave me alone!" M. Raindal interrupted, unable to stand it any more. "I am not asking you to let me take you there, am I?" "You should add that you are very wise not to do so!" Uncle Cyprien retorted, delighted with the success of his tactics. However, apart from the little tricks which he was compelled to employ for fear of being censured, for fear of his brother and Schleifmann, he had never been happier. He very seldom went to the Bourse; on the other hand, he now operated without any help, dealing directly with Talloire. He enjoyed the feverish pleasure of giving his own orders, following their varying fortunes and taking his profit and placing it elsewhere. Several inspirations stood behind him; there was the advice of his friend Pums, some secret intuitions of his own, and the advice of a special sheet, the "Lingot," for which he had taken a three months' subscription. Good luck had a share in it, and in time the total of his profits reached the neat sum of 35,000 francs. He had no more than 75,000 francs to make now; that is to say, according to the least optimistic calculations, not more than four months to speculate. Then! Ah, then, with these one hundred thousand francs in his pocket, Uncle Cyprien would discard his mask, break with Talloire, put a stop to the game and openly declare his profits. But until then, _motus_, silence, caution and mystery, in short as much hypocrisy as they wished! Accordingly, the very choice cigars which M. Raindal smoked at the brasserie were, according to him, a present from the Marquis. "Yes, my dear Schleifmann!" he asserted, "I found the box waiting for me when I came home." It must have been a huge box, a trunk almost, if one could judge from the number of havanas which it kept on supplying.