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Updated: June 7, 2025
Here was a little scrub of a bookseller putting the essence of the art and mystery of bill-discounting in these few words. "That will do, Barbet," said Lousteau. "Can you tell us of a bill-broker that will look at us?" "There is Daddy Chaboisseau, on the Quai Saint-Michel, you know. He tided Fendant over his last monthly settlement.
And I can only pay you with one of the bills which you refuse to take." "You have a bill there for five hundred francs at six months; I will take that one of you," said Chaboisseau. Apparently at the last statement of accounts, there had been a balance of five hundred francs in favor of Fendant and Cavalier. They went back to the classical department.
Shining conspicuous among them, he noticed a copy of a work by the architect Ducereau, which gives exceedingly accurate plans of various royal palaces and chateaux in France. "Could you let me have that book?" he asked. "Yes," said Chaboisseau, transformed into a bookseller. "How much?" "Fifty francs." "It is dear, but I want it.
"Come, Gigonnet, show a little feeling," said Chaboisseau, "they've knit your stockings for thirty years." "That counts for something," remarked Gobseck. "Are you all alone? Is it safe to speak?" said Mitral, looking carefully about him. "I come about a good piece of business." "If it is good, why do you come to us?" said Gigonnet, sharply, interrupting Mitral.
"Hey, hey! it is papa Mitral!" cried one of them, named Chaboisseau, a little old man who discounted for a publisher. "Bless me, so it is!" said another, a broker named Metivier, "ha, that's an old monkey well up in his tricks." "And you," retorted Mitral, "you are an old crow who knows all about carcasses." "True," said the stern Gobseck. "What are you here for?
The next day the numerous subscribers to a certain liberal journal read, among the Paris items, the following article, inserted authoritatively by Chaboisseau and Metivier, share-holders in the said journal, brokers for publishers, printers, and paper-makers, whose behests no editor dared refuse:
Here was a little scrub of a bookseller putting the essence of the art and mystery of bill-discounting in these few words. "That will do, Barbet," said Lousteau. "Can you tell us of a bill-broker that will look at us?" "There is Daddy Chaboisseau, on the Quai Saint-Michel, you know. He tided Fendant over his last monthly settlement.
Chaboisseau made out a little memorandum, interest so much and commission so much, total deduction thirty francs, then he subtracted fifty francs for Ducerceau's book; finally, from a cash-box full of coin, he took four hundred and twenty francs. "Look here, though, M. Chaboisseau, the bills are either all of them good, or all bad alike; why don't you take the rest?"
"This is not discounting; I am paying myself for a sale," said the old man. Etienne and Lucien were still laughing at Chaboisseau, without understanding him, when they reached Dauriat's shop, and Etienne asked Gabusson to give them the name of a bill-broker. The friends took a cab by the hour, and went to the address.
"This is not discounting; I am paying myself for a sale," said the old man. Etienne and Lucien were still laughing at Chaboisseau, without understanding him, when they reached Dauriat's shop, and Etienne asked Gabusson to give them the name of a bill-broker. The friends took a cab by the hour, and went to the address.
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