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career.
    He seemed to be carrying Mrs. Weyman off at a hand gallop. Once he even burst into song, a Roumanian folk song, in his sweet fluted voice, at the request of Raccamond. The married pair were of use to him as a social screen, in case anyone turned up who knew Mrs. Léon.
    Aristide tried to speak of the bank, said slowly, ‘Comte Jean de Guipatin is working with me there: he’s related to the Bourbons; there’s Comte Hervé Lucé, a fifteenth-century family; Prince Julius Campoverde, an Italian aristocrat—all customers’ men.’
    Alphendéry strolled into the café. Léon called him and asked, ‘Who are your customers?’
    â€˜Our money comes from South Americans who make money every two or three years in some new mining grab or nitrates steal or currency flop, and a few old Spanish land hogs, a few Hollywood sky-rockets, a few Eton playboys, a few Theosophist bankers, a spa owner, a hotel speculator, a German steelworks heir, and the like. Not a bad little collection: we can survive.’
    Léon settled back his head in his collar, threatened, ‘Seems nothing but a society outfit: rich young yellowbellies. No good. These counts: are they kosher? Do you think any of them have any real cash you can sound on the counter without bending it?’
    Alphendéry spoke energetically, ‘Some new, some old: consolidated squirearchies, new political money wedded to the U.S.A., conserved Napoleonic dough, society figures who remember where they came from and how far: not too rusty, not too incautious. Opportunist, clever, unscrupulous, and talented money. People who eat their cake and have it. The best for business: steady income, new sources, no baccarat, no scroungers, no expectations, no frozen funds. A few Chicago streetwalkers with packing-house fortunes, married to phony counts, a few French hereditary bankbooks, a few postwar youngsters, motordrome and flying aces, born in a bedeviled world, crazy to make a fortune, amoral, playing for big stakes: the latter hang around Jules Bertillon as if he were their long-lost brother. That sounds shaky, but it’s sounder than you guess. Jules says, “I can work with any ace: he understands me. If I’m ever held up, it will be for speeding.” ’
    Léon laughed but said thoughtfully, ‘Birdmen: Luftmenschen ?’ He seemed to believe Alphendéry’s tale. He mused, ‘But no big money. Not related to Morgan’s? I heard something. You have a cousin of the Rothschilds in one of your branches, Aristide tells me.’
    â€˜Have we?’ said Alphendéry: ‘Perhaps. Everyone has. The Rothschilds have given up keeping their second cousins.’
    â€˜That’s bad,’ said Léon. ‘I wouldn’t keep them if they wouldn’t.’ He laughed suddenly. Alphendéry said, ‘I have to go. My old mother’s leaving for home—Strasbourg—tonight. Good night, ladies. Good night!’ He jumped up. They all saw that his clothes were good but his hat was shabby.
    After he left Léon was thoughtful. ‘Well, I don’t want to talk business. But I don’t object to its being little money. Means you can make a graceful exit in a crisis. If France gets any poorer, you’ll have socialism here and they’ll gun for the big fellows … ’ He shook his head. ‘At the same time, it’s small. It depends on yield. You make your money how? That’s what I don’t understand, Raccamond. Can’t figure it out. I’ve been worrying about it, all the afternoon. You don’t give loans, you don’t give commercial credits, you get no half-commission back. Isn’t that what you told me? Then how do you make money?’
    Aristide said, ‘I’ll find out later on: I’ll work it out.’
    â€˜Well,’ commanded Léon, having exhausted the subject, ‘don’t let’s talk business. We want to make