Now it is night. Everything is asleep at Saint-Romans
after the tremendous uproar of the day. Torrents
of rain continue to fall; and in the park, where the
triumphal arches and the Venetian masts still lift
vaguely their soaking carcasses, one can hear streams
rushing down the slopes transformed into waterfalls.
Everything streams or drips. A noise of water,
an immense noise of water. Alone in his sumptuous
room, with its lordly bed all hung with purple silks,
the Nabob is still awake, turning over his own black
thoughts as he strides to and fro. It is not
the affront, that public outrage before all these people,
that occupies him, it is not even the gross insult
the Bey had flung at him in the presence of his mortal
enemies. No, this southerner, whose sensations
were all physical and as rapid as the firing of new
guns, had already thrown off the venom of his rancour.
And then, court favourites, by famous examples, are
always prepared for these sudden falls. What
terrifies him is that which he guesses to lie behind
this affront. He reflects that all his possessions
are over there, firms, counting-houses, ships, all
at the mercy of the Bey, in that lawless East, that
country of the ruler’s good-pleasure. Pressing
his burning brow to the streaming windows, his body
in a cold sweat, his hands icy, he remains looking
vaguely out into the night, as dark, as obscure as
his own future.
Suddenly a noise of footsteps, of precipitate knocks
at the door.
“Who is there?”
“Sir,” said Noel, coming in half dressed,
“it is a very urgent telegram that has been
sent from the post-office by special messenger.”
“A telegram! What can there be now?”
He takes the envelope and opens it with shaking fingers.
The god, struck twice already, begins to feel himself
vulnerable, to know the fears, the nervous weakness
of other men. Quick—to the signature.
MORA! Is it possible? The duke—the
duke to him! Yes, it is indeed—M-O-R-A.
And above it: “Popolasca is dead. Election
coming in Corsica. You are official candidate.”
Deputy! It was salvation. With that, nothing
to fear. No one dares treat a representative
of the great French nation as a mere swindler.
The Hemerlingues were finely defeated.
“Oh, my duke, my noble duke!”
He was so full of emotion that he could not sign his
name. Suddenly: “Where is the man
who brought this telegram?”
“Here, M. Jansoulet,” replied a jolly
south-country voice from the corridor.
He was lucky, that postman.
“Come in,” said the Nabob. And giving
him the receipt, he took in a heap from his pockets—ever
full—as many gold pieces as his hands could
hold, and threw them into the cap of the poor fellow,
who stuttered, distracted and dazzled by the fortune
showered upon him, in the night of this fairy palace.
