in Paris, awaiting his
restoration to health, according to his own account of the matter,
before resuming his post. The same people were confident that he
would never regain it, and that even were it not for certain exalted
influences--However, he was the important personage of the luncheon;
that was clear from the manner in which the servants waited upon him,
and the Nabob consulted him, calling him "Monsieur le Marquis," as at
the Comedie-Francaise, less almost out of deference than from pride, by
reason of the honour which it reflected upon himself. Full of disdain
for the people around him, M. le Marquis spoke little, in a very
high voice, and as though he were stooping towards those whom he was
honouring with his conversation. From time to time he would throw to the
Nabob across the table a few words enigmatical for all.

"I saw the duke yesterday. He was talking a great deal about you in
connection with that matter. You know, that thing--that business. What
was the name of it?"

"You really mean it? He spoke of me to you?" And the good Nabob, quite
proud, would look around him with movements of the head that were
supremely laughable, or perhaps assume the contemplative air of a
devotee who should hear the name of Our Lord pronounced.

"His excellency would have pleasure in seeing you take up the--ps, ps,
ps--the thing."

"He told you so?"

"Ask the governor if he did not--heard it like myself."

The person who was called the governor--Paganetti, to give him his
real name--was a little, expressive man, constantly gesticulating and
fatiguing to behold, so many were the different expressions which his
face would assume in the course of a single minute. He was managing
director of the Territorial Bank of Corsica, a vast financial
enterprise, and had now come to the house for the first time, introduced
by Monpavon; he occupied accordingly a place of honour. On the other
side of the Nabob was an old gentleman, buttoned up to the chin in a
frock-coat having a straight collar without lapels, like an Oriental
tunic, his face slashed by a thousand little bloodshot veins and wearing
a white moustache of military cut. It was Brahim Bey, the most valiant
colonel of the Regency of Tunis, aide-de-camp of the former Bey who had
made the fortune of Jansoulet. The glorious exploits of this warrior
showed themselves written in wrinkles, in blemishes wrought by
debauchery upon the nerveless under-lip that hung as it were rela