They had liked each other from the first words they had exchanged. They were mutually attracted. Their nationalities were different, their religions antagonistic, their temperaments divergent but they found out that they shared the same grudges and detested the same castes. Curiosity also helped to foster their association. Schleifmann was to Uncle Cyprien a real mine of exceptional documents upon which he could feed his hatreds, and Schleifmann saw in him an unregarded specimen of the enemies of his race. Moreover, they cherished in secret their own plans concerning each other. The Galician wanted to convert his friend to the theories of Karl Marx; while the younger M. Raindal had sworn to himself that he would convert the exiled philosopher from his internationalistic views. Above all other motives, poverty united them, that poverty which kneads all the lowly into an identical paste, merges them into one family, transforms them into brothers and allies--age, origin or any other obstacle notwithstanding. Hence, they had hardly spent a day during the past ten years without meeting outside or visiting each other in their respective garrets. * * * * * Cyprien Raindal was ready and opened his door to go out. He fell back a step, surprised on seeing Johann Schleifmann himself, preparing to ring. "You!" "Surely, it is I!..." Schleifmann replied in a voice which the constant use of the Hebrew language had rendered somewhat nasal and slow. "I did not see you yesterday and so I came to ascertain whether you were not ill...." "Oh, it is nothing at all; a mere touch of rheumatism, my wretched rheumatism.... Come in, come in, please," the younger M. Raindal added, removing his own hat. "It seems as if we had not chatted for ages!" He closed the door and pulled his old friend Johann by the sleeve. Schleifmann replied with a smile. "Yes, let us talk! As a matter of fact, I have brought you the surprise which I mentioned the other day.... Here, enjoy yourself!..." He threw on the table a book bound in reddish linen, on the back of which was printed in black letters: _Year Book of French Finance_. While Cyprien examined the volume, Schleifmann half-stretched himself on the couch, following a sarcastic trend of ideas. His was the type of the eastern Jew, a Kalmuk face with a wax-like complexion, a flat nose, turned up at the tip and with broad nostrils and small, yellowish eyes that shone with malice. His gray hair and beard were crisp and curly like wool; to correct his shortsightedness, he wore large gold-rimmed spectacles, the supreme elegance of Teutonic university men. Suddenly he exclaimed in his usual slow, dragging voice: