"
"Is it possible!" cried Gazonal.
"Remember this," said Bixiou, gravely. "In Paris there is no such
thing as a small business; all things swell to large proportions, down
to the sale of rags and matches. The lemonade-seller who, with his
napkin under his arm, meets you as you enter his shop, may be worth
his fifty thousand francs a year; the waiter in a restaurant is
eligible for the Chamber; the man you take for a beggar in the street
carries a hundred thousand francs worth of unset diamonds in his
waistcoat pocket, and didn't steal them either."
The three inseparables (for one day at any rate) now crossed the Place
de la Bourse in a way to intercept a man about forty years of age,
wearing the Legion of honor, who was coming from the boulevard by way
of the rue Neuve-Vivienne.
"Hey!" said Leon, "what are you pondering over, my dear Dubourdieu?
Some fine symbolic composition? My dear cousin, I have the pleasure to
present to you our illustrious painter Dubourdieu, not less celebrated
for his humanitarian convictions than for his talents in art.
Dubourdieu, my cousin Palafox."
Dubourdieu, a small, pale man with melancholy blue eyes, bowed
slightly to Gazonal, who bent low as before a man of genius.
"So you have elected Stidmann in place of--" he began.
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