Victor heard this, smiled, and covered for Eld, holding Balzac's shoulder: "No rush, brother, let's find a quiet place to chat slowly."
They walked into the France Restaurant, found a secluded private room on the second floor, and sat down. Coffee and brandy were quickly served.
Eld held his wine glass, speaking eloquently: "Mr. Balzac, you must know that truly powerful companies often won't let their names be heard casually during idle tavern talks. Our legal advisors in London have all written opinions for Parliament. Our translators, some of them teach at Oxford and Cambridge, some have drafted documents for the Foreign Office. As for printing equipment... Ha, you should know Fleet Street by the Thames River, right? We occupy thirty percent of the capacity there."
"My God!" Balzac's eyes lit up, as if he had already seen stacks of British Pounds floating into his pocket from the riverside: "If what you're saying is true... thirty percent? That's not a small amount!"
