Upon this he commenced to speak to us of a superb combinazione—­it is his favourite word and he pronounces it in such an insinuating manner—­a combinazione into which there was entering this famous Nabob, of whom all the newspapers are talking.  The Territorial Bank was therefore about to find itself in a position which would enable it to acquit itself of its obligations to its faithful servants, recognise acts of devotion, rid itself of useless parasites.  This for me, I imagine.  And in conclusion:  “Prepare your statements.  All accounts will be settled not later than to-morrow.”  Unhappily he has so often soothed us with lying words, that the effect of his speech was lost.  Formerly these fine promises were always swallowed.  At the announcement of a new combinazione, there used to be dancing, weeping for joy in the offices, and men would embrace each other like shipwrecked sailors discovering a sail.

Each one would prepare his account for the morrow, as he had said.  But on the morrow, no manager.  The day following, still nobody.  He had left town on a little journey.

At length, one day when all would be there, exasperated, putting out our tongues, maddened by the water which he had brought to our mouths, the governor would arrive, let himself drop into an easy chair, his head in his hands, and before one could speak to him:  “Kill me,” he would say, “kill me.  I am a wretched impostor.  The combinazione has failed.  It has failed, Pechero! the combinazione.”  And he would cry, sob, throw himself on his knees, pluck out his hair by handfuls, roll on the carpet.  He would call us by our Christian names, implore us to put an end to his existence, speak of his wife and children whose ruin he had consummated.  And none of us would have the courage to protest in face of a despair so formidable.  What do I say?  One always ended by sympathizing with him.  No, since theatres have existed, never has there been a comedian of his ability.  But to-day, that is all over, confidence is gone.  When he had left, every one shrugged his shoulders.  I must admit, however, that for a moment I had been shaken.  That assurance about the settling of my account, and then the name of the Nabob, that man so rich——­

“You actually believe it, you?” the cashier said to me.  “You will be always innocent, then, my poor Passajon.  Don’t disturb yourself.  It will be the same with the Nabob as it was with Moessard’s Queen.”  And he returned to the manufacture of his shirt-fronts.

What he had just said referred to the time when Moessard was making love to his Queen, and had promised the governor that in case of success he would induce her Majesty to put capital into our undertaking.  At the office, we were all aware of this new adventure, and very anxious, as you may imagine, that it should succeed quickly, since our money depended upon it.  For two months this story held all of us breathless.