to advance, the Nabob walking beside it, trying to open the accursed door which was stuck fast, and making signs to the engine-driver.  The engine was not answering.  “Stop, stop, there!” It did not stop.  Losing patience, he jumped on to the velvet-covered step, and in that fiery, impulsive manner of his which had so delighted the old Bey, he cried, his woolly head at the door, “Saint-Romans station, your Highness.”

You know the sort of vague light there is in dreams, the colourless empty atmosphere where everything has the look of a phantom.  Jansoulet was suddenly enveloped in this, stricken, paralyzed.  He wanted to speak, words would not come, his nerveless hand held the door so feebly that he almost fell backward.  What had he seen?  On a divan at the back of the saloon, reposing on his elbow, his beautiful dark head with its long silky beard leaning on his hand, was the Bey, close wrapped in his Oriental coat, without other ornaments than the large ribbon of the Legion of Honour across his breast and the diamond in the aigrette of his fez.  He was fanning himself impassively with a little fan of gold-embroidered strawwork.  Two aides-de-camp and an engineer of the railway company were standing beside him.  Opposite, on another divan, in a respectful attitude, but favoured evidently, as they were the only ones seated in the Bey’s presence, were two owl-like men, their long whiskers falling on their white ties, one fat and the other thin.  They were the Hemerlingues, father and son, who had won over his Highness and were bearing him off in triumph to Paris.  What a horrible dream!  All three men, who knew Jansoulet well, looked at him coldly as though his face recalled nothing.  Piteously white, his forehead covered with sweat, he stammered, “But, your Highness, are you not going to—­” A vivid flash of lightning, followed by a terrible peal of thunder, stopped the words.  But the lightning in the eyes of his sovereign seemed to him as terrible.  Sitting up, his arm outstretched, in guttural voice as of one accustomed to roll the hard Arab syllables, but in pure French, the Bey struck him down with the slow, carefully prepared words:  “Go home, swindler.  The feet go where the heart guides.  Mine will never enter the house of the man who has cheated my country.”

Jansoulet tried to say something.  The Bey made a sign:  “Go on.”  The engineer pressed a button, a whistle replied, the train, which had never really stopped, seemed to stretch itself, making all its iron muscles crack, to take a bound and start off at full speed, the flags fluttering in the storm-wind, and the black smoke meeting the lightning flashes.

Jansoulet, left standing on the track, staggering, stunned, ruined, watched his fortune fly away and disappear, oblivious of the large drops of rain which were falling on his bare head.  Then, when the others rushed upon him, surrounded him, rained questions upon him, he stuttered some disconnected words:  “Court intrigues—­infamous plot.”  And suddenly, shaking his fist after the train, with eyes that were bloodshot, and a foam of rage upon his lips, he roared like a wild beast, “Blackguards!”