“Come, give me a kiss, my dear mother.  There is nothing to be ashamed of in giving a good hug to the boy you haven’t seen all these years.  Besides, all these gentlemen are our friends.  This is the Marquis de Monpavon, the Marquis de Bois d’Hery.  Ah! the time is past when I brought you to eat vegetable soup with us, little Cabassu and Jean-Batiste Bompain.  You know M. de Gery?  With my old friend Cardailhac, whom I now present, that makes the first batch.  There are others to come.  Prepare yourself for a fine upsetting.  We entertain the Bey in four days.”

“The Bey again!” said the old woman, astounded.  “I thought he was dead.”

Jansoulet and his guests could not help laughing at this comical terror, accentuated by her southern intonation.

“It is another, mamma.  There is always a Bey—­thank goodness.  But don’t be afraid.  You won’t have so much bother this time.  Our friend Cardailhac has undertaken everything.  We are going to have magnificent celebrations.  In the meantime, quick—­dinner and our rooms.  Our Parisians are worn out.”

“Everything is ready, my son,” said the old lady quietly, stiff and straight under her Cambrai cap, the head-dress with its yellowing flaps, which she never left off even for great occasions.  Good fortune had not changed her.  She was a true peasant of the Rhone valley, independent and proud, without any of the sly humilities of Balzac’s country folk, too artless to be purse-proud.  One pride alone she had—­that of showing her son with what scrupulous care she had discharged her duties as guardian.  Not an atom of dust, not a trace of damp on the walls.  All the splendid ground-floor, the reception-rooms with their hangings of iridescent silk new out of the dust sheets, the long summer galleries cool and sonorous, paved with mosaics and furnished with a flowery lightness in the old-fashioned style, with Louis XIV sofas in cane and silk, the immense dining-room decorated with palms and flowers, the billiard-room with its rows of brilliant ivory balls, its crystal chandeliers and its suits of armour—­all the length of the castle, through its tall windows, wide open to the stately terrace, lay displayed for the admiration of the visitors.  The marvellous beauty of the horizon and the setting sun, its own serene and peaceful richness, were reflected in the panes of glass and in the waxed and polished wood with the same clearness as in the mirror-like ornamental lakes, the pictures of the poplars and the swans.  The setting was so lovely, the whole effect so grand, that the clamorous and tasteless luxury melted away, disappeared, even to the most hypercritical eyes.

“There is something to work on,” said Cardailhac, the manager, his glass in his eye, his hat on one side, combining already his stage-effect.  And the haughty air of Monpavon, whom the head-dress of the old woman receiving them on the terrace had shocked, gave way to a condescending smile.  Here was something to work on, certainly, and, guided by persons of taste, their friend Jansoulet could really give his Moorish Highness an exceedingly suitable reception.  All the evening they talked of nothing else.  In the sumptuous dining-room, their elbows on the table, full of meat and drink, they planned and discussed.  Cardailhac, who had great ideas, had already his plan complete.