out on a
bewildering extemporization, counting up the votes at his disposal, the
cantons which will rise at his summons. "You bring me your funds--I
give you a whole people." The affair is carried by storm.

"Bompain! Bompain!" calls the Nabob in his enthusiasm. He has but one
fear, that the thing will escape him; and to bind Paganetti, who does
not conceal his need of money, he hastens to pour a first instalment
into the _Caisse Territoriale_. Second appearance of the man in the red
cap with the check-book, which he holds solemnly against his breast,
like a choir-boy carrying the Gospel. Second affixture of Jansoulet's
signature to a check, which the Governor stows away with a negligent
air, and which effects a sudden transformation of his whole person.
Paganetti, but now so humble and unobtrusive, walks away with the
self-assurance of a man held in equilibrium by four hundred thousand
francs, while Monpavon, carrying his head even higher than usual,
follows close upon his heels and watches over him with a more than
paternal solicitude.

"There's a good stroke of business well done," says the Nabob to
himself, "and I'll go and drink my coffee." But ten borrowers are lying
in wait for him. The quickest, the most adroit, is Cardailhac, the
manager, who hooks him and carries him off into an empty salon. "Let us
talk a bit, my good friend. I must set before you the condition of our
theatre." A very complicated condition, no doubt; for here comes
Monsieur Bompain again, and more sky-blue leaves fly away from the
check-book. Now, whose turn is it? The journalist Moessard comes to get
his pay for the article in the _Messager_; the Nabob will learn what it
costs to be called "the benefactor of infancy" in the morning papers.
The provincial cure asks for funds to rebuild his church, and takes
his check by assault with the brutality of a Peter the Hermit. And now
old Schwalbach approaches, with his nose in his beard, winking
mysteriously. "Sh! he has vound ein bearl," for monsieur's gallery, an
Hobbema from the Duc de Mora's collection. But several people have
their eye on it. It will be difficult to obtain. "I must have it at any
price," says the Nabob, allured by the name of Mora. "You understand,
Schwalbach, I must have that _Nobbema_. Twenty thousand francs for you
if you hit it off."

"I vill do mein best, Monsieur Jansoulet."

And the old knave, as he turns away, calculates that the Nabob's twenty
thousand, added to