and men would embrace each other like shipwrecked sailors
discovering a sail.

Each one would prepare his account for the morrow, as he had said. But
on the morrow, no manager. The day following, still nobody. He had left
town on a little journey.

At length, one day when all would be there, exasperated, putting out our
tongues, maddened by the water which he had brought to our mouths, the
governor would arrive, let himself drop into an easy chair, his head in
his hands, and before one could speak to him: "Kill me," he would say,
"kill me. I am a wretched impostor. The _combinazione_ has failed. It
has failed, _Pechero!_ the _combinazione_." And he would cry, sob,
throw himself on his knees, pluck out his hair by handfuls, roll on the
carpet. He would call us by our Christian names, implore us to put an
end to his existence, speak of his wife and children whose ruin he had
consummated. And none of us would have the courage to protest in face of
a despair so formidable. What do I say? One always ended by sympathizing
with him. No, since theatres have existed, never has there been a
comedian of his ability. But to-day, that is all over, confidence is
gone. When he had left, every one shrugged his shoulders. I must admit,
however, that for a moment I had been shaken. That assurance about the
settling of my account, and then the name of the Nabob, that man so
rich----

"You actually believe it, you?" the cashier said to me. "You will be
always innocent, then, my poor Passajon. Don't disturb yourself. It
will be the same with the Nabob as it was with Moessard's Queen." And he
returned to the manufacture of his shirt-fronts.

What he had just said referred to the time when Moessard was making love
to his Queen, and had promised the governor that in case of success he
would induce her Majesty to put capital into our undertaking. At the
office, we were all aware of this new adventure, and very anxious,
as you may imagine, that it should succeed quickly, since our money
depended upon it. For two months this story held all of us breathless.
We felt some disquiet, we kept a watch on Moessard's face, considered
that the lady was inclined to insist upon a great deal of ceremony;
and our old cashier, with his dignified and serious air, when he was
questioned on the matter, would answer gravely, behind his wire screen:
"Nothing fresh," or "The thing is in a good way." Whereupon everybody
was contented. One would say to another, "