“Poor fellow!  But they will devour him.”

“Bah!  It is only fair that he should be made to disgorge a little.  He has been such a thief himself away yonder among the Turks.”

“Really, do you believe that is so?”

“Do I believe it?  I am in possession of very precise details on the point which I have from Baron Hemerlingue, the banker, who effected the last Tunisian loan.  He knows some stories about the Nabob, he does.  Just imagine.”

And the infamous gossip commenced.  For fifteen years Jansoulet had exploited the former Bey in a scandalous fashion.  Names of purveyors were cited and tricks wonderful in their assurance, their effrontery; for instance, the story of a musical frigate, yes, a veritable musical box, like a dining-room picture, which he had bought for two hundred thousand francs and sold again for ten millions; the cost price of a throne sold at three millions for which the account could be seen in the books of an upholsterer of the Faubourg Saint-Honore did not exceed a hundred thousand francs; and the funniest part of it was that, the Bey having changed his mind, the royal seat, fallen into disgrace before it had even been unpacked, remained still nailed in its packing-case at the custom-house in Tripoli.

Next, beyond these wildly extravagant commissions on the provision of the least toy, they laid stress upon accusations more grave but no less certain, since they also sprang from the same source.  It seemed there was, adjoining the seraglio, a harem of European women admirably equipped for his Highness by the Nabob, who must have been a good judge in such matters, having practised formerly, in Paris—­before his departure for the East—­the most singular trades:  vendor of theatre-tickets, manager of a low dancing-hall, and of an establishment more ill-famed still.  And the whispering ended in a smothered laugh, the coarse laugh of men chatting among themselves.

The first impulse of the young man from the country, as he heard these infamous calumnies, was to turn round and exclaim: 

“You lie!”

A few hours earlier he would have done it without hesitating; but, since he had been there, he had learned distrust, scepticism.  He contained himself, therefore, and listened to the end, motionless in the same place, having deep down within himself an unavowed desire to become further acquainted with the man whose service he had entered.  As for the Nabob, the completely unconscious subject of this hideous recital, tranquilly installed in a small room to which its blue hangings and two shaded lamps gave a reposeful air, he was playing his game of ecarte with the Duc de Mora.

O magic of Fortune’s argosy!  The son of the dealer in old iron seated alone at a card-table opposite the first personage of the Empire!  Jansoulet could scarcely believe the Venetian mirror in which were reflected his own bright countenance and the august head with its parting down the middle.  Accordingly, in order to show his appreciation of this great honour, he sought to lose decently as many thousand-franc notes as possible, feeling himself even so the winner of the game, and quite proud to see his money pass into those aristocratic hands, whose least gesture he studied as they dealt, cut, or held the cards.