A buzz of panic arose in the air, among the rich smells and the increasing clatter of dishes. And at that moment what raised the excitement to a peak was the sudden entry of one of the stockbroker’s clerks, little Flory, a lad with a gentle face almost swallowed whole by a thick brown beard. He rushed forward with a packet of order-cards in his hand, and handed them to his boss, whispering in his ear.

‘Good,’ was Mazaud’s only answer, as he tucked the cards away in his order-book. Then, drawing out his watch:

‘Nearly midday! Tell Berthier to wait for me. Be there yourself too, and go and pick up the telegrams.’

When Flory had gone, Mazaud resumed his conversation with Amadieu, took out some other cards from his pocket, and laid them on the table beside his plate; and every minute some departing customer would lean over as he went by and say something, which he promptly noted, between mouthfuls, on one of the pieces of paper. The false news from who knows where, arising out of nothing, was growing ever bigger, like a gathering storm-cloud.

‘You’re selling, aren’t you?’ Moser asked Salmon.

But the silent smile of the latter was so sharp with perspicacity that it left him anxious, worried now about this English ultimatum, not realizing that he had invented it himself.

‘Personally, I’ll buy whatever’s on offer,’ said Pillerault in conclusion, with the vainglorious temerity of a gambler with no system.

Saccard, his brow heated by the fever of speculation provoked by this noisy ending to lunch in the narrow dining-room, decided to eat his asparagus, irritated anew by Huret, whom he had now given up. For weeks now he, who was usually so quick to make decisions, had grown hesitant, troubled by uncertainties. He felt an imperative need for change, to start afresh, and his first idea had been of an entirely new life in the upper reaches of administration, or else in politics. Why shouldn’t a position in the Legislative Assembly lead him on to the Council of Ministers, as it had his brother? What he didn’t like about speculation was the constant instability, the huge sums lost as fast as they were gained: he had never been able to sleep on a real million, owing nothing to anyone. And now, as he took stock of things, he decided he was perhaps too passionate a person for this financial battle, which needed such a cool head. That must be why, after such an extraordinary life of both luxury and poverty, he had emerged empty-handed and burnt-out from those ten years of amazing land-deals in the new Paris, while others, less astute than he, had garnered colossal fortunes. Yes, perhaps he had been quite wrong about where his real talents lay; perhaps, with his energy and ardent convictions, he would triumph in one bound in the political fray. Everything would depend on his brother’s response. If he pushed him away, threw him back into the abyss of speculation, well, it would be just too bad, for him and for others; he would take his chances on the big plan he hadn’t mentioned to anyone, the enormous project he had dreamed of for weeks and which alarmed even himself, so vast was it and capable, if it succeeded or if it failed, of setting the world astir.

Pillerault raised his voice once more—

‘Mazaud, is the Schlosser business settled?’

‘Yes,’ replied the broker, ‘the notice will go up today… That’s how it is… it’s always unpleasant, but I’d had the most disturbing reports, and I was the first to make demand.* Now and again you just have to clear the ground.’

‘I’ve been told’, said Moser, ‘that your colleagues, Jacoby and Delarocque, had some considerable sums invested.’

The broker made a vague gesture.

‘Bah, there have to be some losses… That Schlosser must have been part of a group; and all he’ll have to do is go off to Berlin or Vienna and start plundering the Stock Exchange there.’

Saccard’s gaze had fallen upon Sabatani, of whose secret association with Schlosser he had happened to learn: the two men played the well-known game, one bidding up and the other bidding down for the same stock; the loser would simply share the profit of the other and disappear. But the young man was quietly paying the bill for the meal he had just eaten. Then, with the typical caressing grace of the Oriental mixed with Italian, he went over to shake hands with Mazaud, whose client he was. He leaned over, and placed an order that Mazaud wrote on a card.

‘He’s selling his Suez holdings,’ murmured Moser.

Then, giving way to his need to know, sick with doubt as he was:

‘So, what do you think about Suez?’

Silence fell on the hubbub of voices, and at the neighbouring tables every head turned round. The question summed up the increasing anxiety. But the back view of Amadieu, who had invited Mazaud to lunch simply to recommend one of his nephews to him, remained impenetrable, having indeed nothing to say. The stockbroker, on the other hand, increasingly astonished by the number of orders to sell he was getting, simply nodded, with his customary professional discretion.

‘Suez is good!’ declared Sabatani in his sing-song voice, making a detour to come over and very courteously shake Saccard’s hand before he left.

The sensation of that handshake, so soft and supple, almost feminine, lingered for a moment with Saccard. In his uncertainty about the road he should take and how to rebuild his life, he decided they were all scoundrels, every man there. Ah, if he were forced to it, how he would hunt them down, how he’d fleece them all, the trembling Mosers, the boastful Pilleraults, the Salmons hollower than a drum, and people like Amadieu, seen as a genius on the strength of one success! The clatter of plates and glasses had resumed, voices were getting hoarse, the doors banged ever louder in the raging hurry to get to the market in case Suez should indeed be about to crash. Looking out of the window onto the middle of the square, lined by carriages and crammed with pedestrians, Saccard could see the sunlit steps of the Bourse, speckled now with the continual surge of human insects, men smartly dressed in black gradually filling the colonnade, while behind the railings a few women appeared, prowling around beneath the chestnut trees.

Suddenly, as he was about to start on the cheese he’d just ordered, a loud voice made him look up.

‘I beg your pardon, my dear chap, I really was unable to get here any sooner.’

It was Huret at last, a Norman from Calvados with the thick, broad face of a wily peasant, but who affected to be a simple man. He immediately ordered something, whatever was available, the dish of the day, with a vegetable.

‘Well…?’ said Saccard curtly, trying to contain his annoyance.

But the other was in no hurry, looking at him with the air of a man both crafty and cautious. Then, starting to eat, he leaned towards him, lowering his voice:

‘Well, I saw the great man… Yes, at his home, this morning… Oh, he was very kind, very well-disposed towards you…’

He paused, drank a large glass of wine, and popped a potato into his mouth.

‘So…?’

‘So, my dear chap, this is how it is… He’s very willing to do all he can for you, he’ll find you a very good position, but not in France… For instance, the governorship of one of our colonies, one of the better ones. You’d be the master there, a real little prince.’

Saccard had turned pale.

‘Come now, you can’t be serious, this is a joke!… Why not just deport me straight off!… Oh yes, he wants to be rid of me. He’d better be careful or I might end up seriously embarrassing him.’

Huret sat there with his mouth full, looking conciliatory.

‘Come, come now, we only want what’s best for you, just let us get on with it.’

‘And allow myself to be wiped out, eh?… Well, just a little while back they were saying here that the Empire soon wouldn’t have any more mistakes left to make. Yes, after the Italian war, and Mexico, and the attitude to Prussia. My word, it’s the truth… You’ll do so many stupid and crazy things that the whole of France will rise up to kick you out.’

With that the Deputy, faithful servant of his minister, turned pale and looked about him anxiously.

‘Ah, please, allow me to say… I can’t go along with you there… Rougon is an honest man, there is no danger of that, so long as he is there… No, don’t say another word, you misjudge him, I must insist.’

Saccard interrupted him violently, controlling his voice between clenched teeth:

‘So be it, go on loving him, carry on cooking up plans with him… Yes or no, will he give me his support in Paris?’

‘In Paris, never!’

Without another word Saccard stood up and called the waiter over to pay the bill, while Huret, accustomed to his fits of rage, very calmly went on swallowing big mouthfuls of bread and let him go, for fear of a scene. But just then there was a great commotion in the room.

Gundermann had just come in, the banker-king, master of the Bourse and the world, a man of sixty, whose huge bald head, thick nose, and round, protruding eyes seemed to express immense obstinacy and weariness.