lives in such a whirl of business that with certain exceptions which
we make for ourselves, we have not the time to give each individual
client the amount of interest which he himself takes in his affairs.
Still, one day when Gobseck came to dine with me, I asked him as we
left the table if he knew how it was that I had heard no more of M. de
Restaud.

"'There are excellent reasons for that,' he said; 'the noble Count is
at death's door. He is one of the soft stamp that cannot learn how to
put an end to chagrin, and allow it to wear them out instead. Life is
a craft, a profession; every man must take the trouble to learn that
business. When he has learned what life is by dint of painful
experiences, the fibre of him is toughened, and acquires a certain
elasticity, so that he has his sensibilities under his own control; he
disciplines himself till his nerves are like steel springs, which
always bend, but never break; given a sound digestion, and a man in
such training ought to live as long as the cedars of Lebanon, and
famous trees they are.'

"'Then is the Count actually dying?' I asked.

"'That is possible,' said Gobseck; 'the winding up of his estate will
be a juicy bit of business for you.'

"I looked at my man, and said, by way of sounding him:

"'Just explain to me how it is that we, the Count and I, are the only
men in whom you take an interest?'

"'Because you are the only two who have trusted me without