liners disappearing in their own steam.  The frightful desert of the Taverna was not forgotten, nor the old Genoese castle, the office of the steamship agency.  But what amused the Chamber most was the story of a swindling ceremony organized by the governor for the piercing of a tunnel through Monte Rotondo, a gigantic undertaking always in project, put off from year to year, demanding millions of money and thousands of workmen, and which was begun in great pomp a week before the election.  His report gave the thing a comic air—­the first blow of the pickaxe given by the candidate in the enormous mountain covered by ancient forests, the speech of the Prefect, the benediction of the flags with the cries of “Long live Bernard Jansoulet!” and the two hundred workmen beginning the task at once, working day and night for a week; then, when the election was over, leaving the fragments of rock heaped round the abandoned excavation for a laughing-stock—­another asylum for the terrible banditti.  The game was over.  After having extorted the shareholders’ money for so long, the Territorial Bank this time was used as a means to swindle the electors of their votes.  “Furthermore, gentlemen, another detail, with which perhaps I should have begun and spared you the recital of this electoral pasquinade.  I learn that a judicial inquiry has been opened to-day into the affairs of the Corsican Bank, and that a serious examination of its books will very probably reveal one of those financial scandals—­too frequent, alas! in our days—­and in which, for the honour of the Chamber, we would wish that none of our members were concerned.”

With this sudden revelation, the speaker stopped a moment, like an actor making his point; and in the heavy silence weighing on the assembly, the noise of a closing door was heard.  It was the Governor Paganetti leaving the tribune, his face white, the eyes wide open, his mouth half opened, like some Pierrot scenting in the air a formidable blow.  Monpavon, motionless, expanded his shirtfront.  The big man puffed violently into the flowers of his wife’s little white hat.

Jansoulet’s mother looked at her son.

“I have spoken of the honour of the Chamber, gentlemen.  On that point I have more to say.”  Now Le Merquier was reading no longer.  After the chairman of the committees, the orator came on the scene, or rather the judge.  His face was expressionless, his eyes hidden; nothing lived, nothing moved in all his body save the right arm—­the long angular arm with short sleeves—­which rose and fell automatically, like a sword of justice, making at the end of each sentence the cruel and inexorable gesture of beheading.  And truly it was an execution at which they were present.  The orator would leave on one side scandalous legends, the mystery which brooded over this colossal fortune acquired in distant lands, far from all control.  But there were in the life of the candidate certain points difficult to clear up, certain details.  He hesitated, seemed