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"There's my uncle talking politics," said Birotteau. "Monsieur Claparon has won his heart." "Devilish rogues, the newspapers," said Claparon. "Monsieur, the newspapers do all the mischief. They are useful sometimes, but they keep me awake many a night. I wish they didn't. I have put my eyes out reading and ciphering." "To go back to the ministers," said Pillerault, hoping for revelations.
"Good God! you are ruined!" cried Pillerault, letting fall his newspaper, which Birotteau picked up, though it was the "Constitutionnel."
"Your nephew has done like all the rest," said Lourdois to Pillerault, "given balls and parties! That a scoundrel should try to throw dust in people's eyes, I can understand; but it is amazing that a man who passed for as honest as the day should play those worn-out, knavish tricks which we are always finding out and condemning."
"You ought to know the risks that you are running; I am bound to give you the benefit of my lights. You are dismissed by M. Pillerault, we will say; there is no doubt about that, is there? You enter the service of these two gentlemen. Very good! That is a declaration of war against the Presidente.
In the affair of the lands about the Madeleine, Pillerault had undertaken a private examination, which was the real cause of the boldness with which Cesar had combated his wife's presentiments. The perfumer went up the seventy-eight stairs which led to the little brown door of his uncle's appartement, thinking as he went that the old man must be very hale to mount them daily without complaining.
Pillerault watched for the right moment to familiarize Cesar's mind with the thought of appearing before his creditors as the law demands. The thought killed him. His mute grief and resignation made a deep impression on his uncle, who often heard him at night, through the partition, crying out to himself, "Never! never! I will die sooner."
Here it is then: Roguin has proposed a speculation to me, so safe that he has gone into it with Ragon, with your uncle Pillerault, and two other of his clients.
At eight o'clock in the morning the two brave friends, one an old soldier, the other a young recruit, who had never known, except by hearsay, the terrible anguish of those who commonly went up the staircase of Bidault called Gigonnet, wended their way, without a word to each other, towards the Rue Grenetat. Both were suffering; from time to time Pillerault passed his hand across his brow.
After going down a few stairs he returned. "Monsieur," he said, in a cold voice, "Constance knows nothing. Keep my secret at any rate; beg the Ragons to say nothing, and not to take from my home the peace I need so much in my struggle against misfortune." Pillerault made a gesture of assent. "Courage, Cesar!" he said.
"Shall we win?" asked Madame Birotteau. "I don't know," answered Popinot. "Though I belong to the court in which the suit is bought, I shall abstain from giving an opinion, even if called upon." "Can there be any doubt in such a simple case?" said Pillerault.