“Bompain, Bompain!” calls the Nabob, roused to enthusiasm.  He has now but one fear, that is lest the thing escape him; and in order to bind Paganetti, who has not concealed his need of money, he hastens to effect the payment of a first instalment to the Territorial bank.  New appearance of the man in red breeches with the check-book which he carries clasped gravely to his chest, like a choir-boy moving the Gospel from one side to the other.  New inscription of Jansoulet’s signature upon a slip, which the governor pockets with a negligent air and which operates on his person a sudden transformation.  The Paganetti who was so humble and spiritless just now, goes away with the assurance of a man worth four hundred thousand francs, while Monpavon, carrying it even higher than usual, follows after him in his steps, and watches over him with a more than paternal solicitude.

“That’s a good piece of business done,” says the Nabob to himself.  “I can drink my coffee now.”

But the borrowers are waiting for him to pass.  The most prompt, the most adroit, is Cardailhac, the manager, who lays hold of him and bears him off into a side-room.

“Let us have a little talk, old friend.  I must explain to you the situation of affairs in connection with our theatre.”  Very complicated, doubtless, the situation; for here is M. Bompain who advances once more, and there are the slips of blue paper flying away from the check-book.  Whose turn now?  There is the journalist Moessard coming to draw his pay for the article in the Messenger; the Nabob will find out what it costs to have one’s self called “benefactor of childhood” in the morning papers.  There is the parish priest from the country who demands funds for the restoration of his church, and takes checks by assault with the brutality of a Peter the Hermit.  There is old Schwalbach coming up with nose in his beard and winking mysteriously.

“Sh!  He had found a pearl for monsieur’s gallery, an Hobbema from the collection of the Duc de Mora.  But several people are after it.  It will be difficult—­”

“I must have it at any price,” says the Nabob, hooked by the name of Mora.  “You understand, Schwalbach.  I must have this Hobbema.  Twenty thousand francs for you if you secure it.”

“I shall do my utmost, M. Jansoulet.”

And the old rascal calculates, as he goes away, that the twenty thousand of the Nabob added to the ten thousand promised him by the duke if he gets rid of his picture for him, will make a nice little profit for himself.

While these fortunate ones follow each other, others look on around, wild with impatience, biting their nails to the quick, for all are come on the same errand.  From the good Jenkins, who opened the advance, to the masseur Cabassu, who closes it, all draw the Nabob away to some room apart.  But, however far they lead him down this gallery of reception-rooms, there is always some indiscreet mirror to reflect the profile of the host and the gestures of his broad back.  That back has eloquence.  Now and then it straightens itself up in indignation.  “Oh, no; that is too much.”  Or again it sinks forward with a comical resignation.  “Well, since it must be so.”  And always Bompain’s fez in some corner of the view.