It was March 19th, and Rodolphe would never forget this date even if he lived to the ripe old age of M. Raoul-Rochette, who had personally witnessed the construction of Nineveh. For on this day, Saint Joseph's Day, at three o’clock in the afternoon, he made his way out of the bank where he had just taken possession of the sum of five hundred francs in cold hard cash.

The first thing Rodolphe did with this slice of Peru that had dropped into his pocket was to not pay his debts, although he did promise himself that he was going to live very frugally and not take on any more debt. His opinions on this matter were quite firm and he reasoned that before dreaming about luxuries, one had to take care of necessities. For this reason, he didn't pay any of his creditors, but he did purchase the Turkish pipe he’d long been coveting.

Armed with this new prize, he headed off to his friend Marcel's place, where he’d been staying for some time. As he walked into the studio, Rodolphe's pockets were ringing out like a village bell on a festival day. Hearing this unusual sound, Marcel thought it must be one of his neighbors, a market speculator, counting up his winnings. In a low voice, he grumbled, “It's that calculating neighbor of mine starting his counting rituals again. If this keeps up, I’ll give my notice and move. It impossible to get any work done with that racket going on. It's enough to make me consider giving up my role as starving artist and joining up with the forty thieves.” As he turned back to his painting of The Passage of the Red Sea, which had been on his easel for the last three years, it never crossed his mind that Rodolphe might have become as rich as Croesus.

Rodolphe, who hadn't yet said a word yet, was quietly plotting some fun with his friend. “Now we’ll have a good laugh,” he said to himself. “Oh my God, this’ll be good!” And he dropped a five franc coin onto the floor.

Marcel lifted his eyes and looked at Rodolphe, whose face was as serious as an article in the Revue des Deux Mondes.