“Yes, I was born in Barcelona.”
“I should have taken you for a Frenchman.”
“In dress and everything else, I am a complete Parisian.”
“This poor man is full of vanity,” thought Cæsar. “All the better.” He immediately began to explain the affair.
“Look,” he said, “the whole matter is this: the Spanish Minister of Finance, my chief, has dealings on a large scale with the Recquillart bank; you know that, and so do I; but the Recquillarts, besides charging an inflated commission, interfere in his buying and selling with so little cleverness, that whenever he buys, it turns out that he bought for more than the market price of the security, and whenever he sells, he sells lower than the quotation. The Minister does not wish to break off with the Recquillarts....”
“He can’t, you meant to say,” replied Puchol, in an insinuating manner. “Since you know the situation...” responded Cæsar.
“Oughtn’t I to?”
“Since you know the whole situation,” continued Cæsar, “I will say that he cannot indeed break off with the Recquillarts, but the Minister would like to do business with somebody else, without passing under the yoke of the chief.”
“He ought to make arrangements with another broker here,” said Puchol.
“Ah, certainly. I have brought some twenty thousand francs with that object.”