In ten days the Nabob had aged twenty years.  Violent southern natures like his, if they are rich in enthusiasms, become also more utterly prostrate than others.  Since his unseating the unfortunate man had shut himself up in his bedroom, with drawn curtains, no longer wishing even to see the light of day nor to cross over the threshold beyond which life was waiting for him, with the engagements he had undertaken, the promises he had made, a mass of protested bills and writs.  The Levantine, gone off to some spa accompanied by her masseur and her negress, was totally indifferent to the ruin of the establishment; Bompain—­the man in the fez—­in frightened bewilderment amid the demands for money, not knowing how to approach his ill-starred master, who persistently kept his bed and turned his face to the wall as soon as business matters were mentioned.  His old mother alone remained behind to face the disaster, with the knowledge born of her narrow and straitened experience as a village woman, who knows what a stamped document—­a signature—­is, and thinks honour is the greatest and best thing in the world.  Her peasant’s cap made its appearance on every floor of the mansion, examining bills, reforming the domestic arrangements, and fearing neither outcries or humiliation.  At all hours the good woman might be seen striding about the Place Vendome, gesticulating, talking to herself, and saying aloud:  “Te, I will go and see the bailiff.”  And never did she consult her son about anything save when it was indispensable, and then only in a few discreet words, while avoiding even a glance at him.  To rouse Jansoulet from his torpor it had required de Gery’s telegram, dated from Marseilles, announcing that he was on his way back, bringing ten million francs.  Ten millions!—­that is to say, bankruptcy averted, the possibility of recovering his position—­of starting life afresh.  And behold our southerner rebounding from the depth of his fall, intoxicated with joy, and full of hope.  He ordered the windows to be opened and newspapers to be brought to him.  What a magnificent opportunity was this first night of Revolt to show himself to the Parisians, who were believing him to have gone under, to enter the great whirlpool once more through the swing door of his box at the Nouveautes!  His mother, warned by some instinct, did indeed try to hold him back.  Paris now terrified her.  She would have liked to carry off her child to some unknown corner of the Midi, to nurse him along with his elder brother—­stricken down both of them by the great city.  But he was the master.  Resistance was impossible to that will of a man spoiled by wealth.  She helped him to dress for the occasion, “made him look nice,” as she said laughing, and watched him not without a certain pride as he departed, dignified, full of new life, having almost got over the prostration of the preceding days.

After his arrival at the theatre, Jansoulet quickly perceived the commotion which his presence caused in the house.  Accustomed to similar curious ovations, he acknowledged them ordinarily without the least embarrassment, with a frank display of his wide and good-natured smile; but this time the manifestation was hostile, almost indignant.