little vineyard at Montbars, a very narrow field for a man who has
lived among all the financial aristocracy of Paris and the bold strokes
of financiering that make fortunes. Instead of that, here I am
established all anew in a superb position, my wardrobe replenished, and
my savings, which I actually held in my hand for a whole day, intrusted
to the fostering care of the Governor, who has undertaken to make them
yield a handsome return. I rather think that he is the man who knows
how to do it. And not the slightest occasion for anxiety. All
apprehensions vanish before the word that is all the fashion at this
moment in all administrative councils, at all meetings of the
shareholders, on the Bourse, on the boulevards, everywhere: "The Nabob
is in the thing." That is to say, we are running over with cash, the
worst _combinazioni_ are in excellent shape.

That man is so rich!

Rich to such a degree that one cannot believe it. Why, he has just
loaned fifteen millions off-hand to the Bey of Tunis. Fifteen millions,
I say! That was rather a neat trick on Hemerlingue, who tried to make
trouble between him and that monarch and to cut the grass from under
his feet in those lovely Oriental countries, where it grows tall and
thick and golden-colored. It was an old Turk of my acquaintance,
Colonel Brahim, one of our council at the _Territoriale_, who arranged
the loan. Naturally the bey, who was very short of pocket money, it
seems, was greatly touched by the Nabob's zeal to accommodate him, and
he sent him by Brahim a letter of acknowledgment in which he told him
that on his next trip to Vichy he would pass two days with him at the
magnificent Chateau de Saint-Romans, which the former bey, this one's
brother, once honored with a visit. Just think what an honor! To
receive a reigning prince! The Hemerlingues are in a frenzy. They had
manoeuvred so skilfully, the son in Tunis, the father in Paris, to
bring the Nabob into disfavor. To be sure, fifteen millions is a large
sum of money. But do not say: "Passajon is gulling us." The person who
told me the story had in his hands the paper sent by the bey in a green
silk envelope stamped with the royal seal. His only reason for not
reading it was that it was written in Arabic; otherwise he would have
taken cognizance of it as he does of all the Nabob's correspondence.
That person is his valet de chambre, M. Noel, to whom I had the honor
to be presented last Friday at a small party of per