"Alas, no, M. Herschstein!" the Galician retorted simply. "I am too old; I have passed the age.... I regret it.... Until the social question is settled for everyone in a scientific fashion, as my master Karl Marx wished it, it would do you no harm to find, on Saturday at the Synagogue, instead of your rabbis who flatter you, a sort of Sophonia who would say to you: 'Lament! ye dwellers in the market-place! All who traffic shall be....'" Again the avalanche of Hebrew and German poured forth. Pums, his nerves overtaxed, closed his ears. Herschstein contracted his hand upon his Moses-like beard. Then a light of hope came to his anxious eyes. He had found an objection. "What about the Christians?" he said victoriously. "Don't the Christians traffic?" "It is no concern of ours what the Christians do!" Schleifmann thundered, cutting the space with a broad forbidding gesture. "They have their God to punish them and socialism to reduce them!... But you ... you are the people of the Lord!... You owe a spontaneous example to the others! You must be _better_!... enjoy less and suffer more!... Such is your destiny! your difficult glory!... They are unique in the world! You can only avoid them by meeting worse sufferings! You are the people of the Lord!" Messrs. Pums and Herschstein would have readily deprived themselves of belonging to that people! To show the example to the others, they! Why they, more than the others? No, this time, upon their honor, they failed to understand. And that rain of quotations, that prophetic storm which was still raging! Better leave the place to him, better find some pretext for a flight. Pums winked rapidly to warn Herschstein and then said deliberately: "You came to sign those papers, didn't you?" "Yes!" Herschstein replied, winking back at him. "Well, then, will you come this way?..." He opened a door at the back and kept his hand on the handle, pluckily protecting the retreat of his ally. "I leave you here, M. Schleifmann!" he said. "The exit is opposite.... As to your lessons to my son, there is no need for you to trouble about them any more. Send me your bill and we shall end it there.... _Au plaisir!_" Schleifmann, stupefied by this flight, stood still, with his mouth open. He racked his mind for a biting word, for a last deadly venomous apostrophe! Then he came close to the door through which Pums had disappeared. "You are the chosen People of the Lord!" he clamored frantically. He went back into the hall, threw a challenging look at the usher and, recollecting the anxiety of his friend Cyprien, hurried down the steps. "Well?" M. Raindal asked, with a suppliant movement of his jaw. "Nothing!" Schleifmann replied. "Nothing!... The scoundrel would not do a thing!" "I could have sworn to it!" Uncle Cyprien sighed, sliding down despairingly. Schleifmann sat beside him in the carriage and asked, "Where shall I drive you, my dear Raindal? To the brasserie?"