scape, lying serene and peaceful in the setting sun, in the
mirrors, the waxed or varnished wainscoting, with the same fidelity
with which the poplars bowing gracefully to each other, and the swans,
placidly swimming, were reproduced on the mirror-like surface of the
ponds. The frame was so beautiful, the general outlook so superb, that
the obtrusive, tasteless luxury melted away, disappeared even to the
most sensitive eye.

"There's something to work with," said Cardailhac the manager, with his
monocle at his eye, his hat on one side, already planning his
stage-setting.

And the haughty mien of Monpavon, who had been somewhat offended at
first by the old lady's head-dress when she received them on the porch,
gave place to a condescending smile. Certainly there was something to
work with, and their friend Jansoulet, under the guidance of men of
taste, could give his Maugrabin Highness a very handsome reception.
They talked about nothing else all the evening. Sitting in the
sumptuous dining-room, with their elbows on the table, warmed by wine
and with full stomachs, they planned and discussed. Cardailhac, whose
views were broad, had his plan all formed.

"Carte blanche, of course, eh, Nabob?"

"Carte blanche, old fellow. And let old Hemerlingue burst with rage."

Thereupon the manager detailed his plans, the festivities to be divided
by days, as at Vaux when Fouquet entertained Louis XIV.; one day a
play, another day Provencal fetes, _farandoles_, bull-fights, local
music; the third day--And, in his mania for management, he was already
outlining programmes, posters, while Bois-l'Hery, with both hands in
his pockets, lying back in his chair, slept peacefully with his cigar
stuck in the corner of his sneering mouth, and the Marquis de Monpavon,
always on parade, drew up his breastplate every moment, to keep himself
awake.

De Gery had left them early. He had gone to take refuge with the old
lady--who had known him, and his brothers, too, when they were
children--in the modest parlor in the wing, with the white curtains and
light wall-paper covered with figures, where the Nabob's mother tried
to revive her past as an artisan, with the aid of some relics saved
from the wreck.

Paul talked softly, sitting opposite the handsome old woman with the
severe and regular features, the white hair piled on top of her head
like the flax on her distaff, who sat erect upon her chair, her flat
bust wrapped in a little green shawl