“You are going away?”

He was going away, going to Tunis, very much troubled at leaving his poor Nabob in the midst of the pack of furious wolves that surrounded him.  Mora’s protection, however, gave him some reassurance; and then, the journey in question was absolutely necessary.

“And the Territorial?” asked the old accountant, ever returning to the subject in his mind.  “How are things standing there?  I see Jansoulet’s name still at the head of the board.  You cannot get him out, then, from that Ali-Baba’s cave?  Take care—­take care!”

“Ah, I know all about that, M. Joyeuse.  But, to leave it with honour, money is needed, much money, a fresh sacrifice of two or three millions, and we have not got them.  That is exactly the reason why I am going to Tunis to try to wrest from the rapacity of the Bey a slice of that great fortune which he is retaining in his possession so unjustly.  At present I have still some chance of succeeding, while later on, perhaps—­”

“Go, then, and make haste, my dear lad, and if you return, as I wish you may, with a heavy bag, see that you deal first of all with the Paganetti gang.  Remember that one shareholder less patient than the rest has the power to smash the whole thing up, to demand an inquiry; and you know what the inquiry would reveal.  Now I come to think of it,” added M. Joyeuse, whose brow had contracted a frown, “I am even surprised that Hemerlingue, in his hatred for you, has not secretly brought up a few shares.”

He was interrupted by the chorus of imprecations which the name of Hemerlingue raised from all the young people, who detested the fat banker for the injury he had done their father, and for the ill-will he bore that good Nabob, who was adored in the house through Paul de Gery.

“Hemerlingue, the heartless monster!  Wretch!  That wicked man!”

But amid all these exclamations, the Visionary was following up his idea of the fat baron becoming a shareholder in the Territorial for the purpose of dragging his enemy into the courts.  And you may imagine the stupefaction of Andre Maranne, a complete stranger to the whole affair, when he saw M. Joyeuse turn to him, and, with face purple and swollen with rage, point his finger at him, with these terrible words: 

“The greatest rascal, after all, in this affair, is you, sir!”

“Oh, papa, papa! what are you saying?”

“Eh, what?  Ah, forgive me, my dear Andre.  I was fancying myself in the examining magistrate’s private room, face to face with that rogue.  It is my confounded brain that is always running away with me.”

All broke into uproarious laughter, which escaped into the outer air through the open windows, and went to mingle with the thousand noises of moving vehicles and people in their Sunday clothes going up the Avenue des Ternes.  The author of Revolt took advantage of the diversion to ask whether they were not soon going to start.  It was late—­the good places would be taken in the Bois.