Nothing, however, could be more natural: the quiet barque that
navigated the stormy waters of the Paris Exchange, under the flag of
the Cat and Racket, was just now in the toils of one of these tempests
which, returning periodically, might be termed equinoctial. For the
last fortnight the five men forming the crew, with Madame Guillaume
and Mademoiselle Virginie, had been devoting themselves to the hard
labor, known as stock-taking.

Every bale was turned over, and the length verified to ascertain the
exact value of the remnant. The ticket attached to each parcel was
carefully examined to see at what time the piece had been bought. The
retail price was fixed. Monsieur Guillaume, always on his feet, his
pen behind his ear, was like a captain commanding the working of the
ship. His sharp tones, spoken through a trap-door, to inquire into the
depths of the hold in the cellar-store, gave utterance to the
barbarous formulas of trade-jargon, which find expression only in
cipher. "How much H. N. Z.?"--"All sold."--"What is left of Q. X.?"
--"Two ells."--"At what price?"--"Fifty-five three."--"Set down A. at
three, with all of J. J., all of M. P., and what is left of V. D. O."
--A hundred other injunctions equally intelligible were spouted over
the counters like verses of modern poetry, quoted by romantic spirits,
to excite each other's enthusiasm for one of their poets. In the
evening Guillaume, shut up with his assistant and his wife, balanced
his accounts, carried on the balance, wrote to debtors in arrears, and
made out bills. All three were busy over this enormous labor, of which
the result could be stated on a sheet of foolscap, proving to the head
of the house that there was so much to the good in hard cash, so much
in goods, so much in bills and notes; that he did not owe a sou; that
a hundred or two hundred thousand francs were owing to him; that the
capital had been increased; that the farmlands, the houses, or the