These are certainly very extraordinary, very incredible internal
arrangements for a banking house. It is, however, the mere truth that
I am telling, and Paris is full of financial institutions after the
pattern of ours. Oh, if ever I publish my memoirs! But to take up the
interrupted thread of my story.

When he saw us all collected in his private room, the manager said to us
with solemnity:

"Gentlemen and dear comrades, the time of trials is ended. The
Territorial Bank inaugurates a new phase."

Upon this he commenced to speak to us of a superb _combinazione_--it is
his favourite word and he pronounces it in such an insinuating manner--a
_combinazione_ into which there was entering this famous Nabob, of whom
all the newspapers are talking. The Territorial Bank was therefore about
to find itself in a position which would enable it to acquit itself of
its obligations to its faithful servants, recognise acts of devotion,
rid itself of useless parasites. This for me, I imagine. And in
conclusion: "Prepare your statements. All accounts will be settled not
later than to-morrow." Unhappily he has so often soothed us with lying
words, that the effect of his speech was lost. Formerly these
fine promises were always swallowed. At the announcement of a new
_combinazione_, there used to be dancing, weeping for joy in the
offices, and men would embrace each other like shipwrecked sailors
discovering a sail.

Each one would prepare his account for the morrow, as he had said. But
on the morrow, no manager. The day following, still nobody. He had left