all his
public misfortunes.

Gradually the salons became empty. The Levantines disappeared one after
another, each leaving an immense void in her place. Madame Jenkins had
gone, and only two or three women, strangers to Jansoulet, remained,
among whom the mistress of the house seemed to be seeking refuge from
him. But Hemerlingue was at liberty, and the Nabob joined him just as he
was sidling furtively away in the direction of his offices, which were
on the same floor opposite the state apartments. Jansoulet went out with
him, forgetting in his confusion to salute the baroness; and when they
were safely out on the landing, arranged as a reception-room, the
corpulent Hemerlingue, who had been very cold and reserved so long as he
felt his wife's eye upon him, assumed a somewhat more open expression.

"It's a great pity," he said in a low tone, as if he were afraid of
being overheard, "that Madame Jansoulet would not come."

Jansoulet replied with a gesture of despair and savage helplessness.

"Too bad--too bad!" said the other, blowing his nose and feeling in his
pocket for his key.

"Look here, old fellow," said the Nabob, taking his arm, "because our
wives don't hit it off together, is no reason--That doesn't prevent our
remaining friends. What a nice little chat we had the other day, eh?"

"To be sure," said the baron, withdrawing his hand to unlock the door,
which opened noiselessly, disclosing the lofty private office with its
one lamp burning in front of the capacious, empty armchair.

"Ya didon, Mouci,"[5] said the poor Nabob, trying to jest, and resorting
to the _sabir_ patois to remind his old chum of all the pleasant
reminiscences they had overhauled the day before. "Our visit to Le
Merquier still holds. The picture we were going to offer him, you know.
What day shall we go?"

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Ah! I say, Monsieur.

"Ah! yes, Le Merquier. To be sure. Well, very soon. I will write you."

"Sure? You know it's very urgent."

"Yes, yes, I'll write you. Adieu."

And the fat man closed his door hastily as if he feared that his wife
might appear.

Two days later the Nabob received a note from Hemerlingue, almost
undecipherable with its little fly-tracks, complicated by abbreviations
more or less commercial, behind which the ex-sutler concealed his
absolute lack of orthography:

"MON CH/ANC/CAM/--Je ne puis decid/t'accom/ chez Le Merq/. Trop d'aff/en
ce mom/. D'aill/v/ ser/mieux seuls pour caus/. Va