The mistress had been rather cold at first, but Herzog’s amiability had thawed her.  This man, with his slow speech and queer eyes, produced a fascinating effect on one like a serpent.  He was repugnant, and yet, in spite of one’s self one was led on.  He, had at once introduced the grain question, but in this he found himself face to face with the real Madame Desvarennes; and no politeness held good on her part when it was a question of business.  From his first words, she had found a weak point in the plan, and had attacked him with such plainness that the financier, seeing his enterprise collapse at the sound of the mistress’s voice-like the walls of Jericho at the sound of the Jewish trumpets—­had beaten a retreat, and had changed the subject.

He was about to float a credit and discount company superior to any in the world.  He would come back and talk with Madame Desvarennes about it, because she ought to participate in the large profits which the matter promised.  There was no risk.  The novelty of the undertaking consisted in the concurrence of the largest banking-houses of France and abroad, which would hinder all competition, and prevent hostility on the part of the great money-handlers.  It was very curious, and Madame Desvarennes would feel great satisfaction in knowing the mechanism of this company, destined to become, from the first, the most important in the world, and yet most easy to understand.

Madame Desvarennes neither said “Yes” nor “No.”  Moved by the soft and insinuating talkativeness of Herzog, she felt herself treading on dangerous ground.  It seemed to her that her foot was sinking, as in those dangerous peat-mosses of which the surface is covered with green grass, tempting one to run on it.  Cayrol was under the charm.  He drank in the German’s words.  This clever man, who had never till then been duped, had found his master in Herzog.

Pierre and Marechal had come nearer, and Madame Desvarennes, profiting by this mingling of groups, introduced the men to each other.  On hearing the name of Pierre Delarue, Herzog looked thoughtful, and asked if the young man was the renowned engineer whose works on the coast of Africa had caused so much talk in Europe?  On Madame Desvarennes replying in the affirmative, he showered well-chosen compliments on Pierre.  He had had the pleasure of meeting Delarue in Algeria, when he had gone over to finish the railroad in Morocco.

But Pierre had stepped back on learning that the constructor of that important line was before him.

“Ah! is it you, sir, who carried out that job?” said he.  “Faith! you treated those poor Moors rather hardly!”

He remembered the misery of the poor natives employed by Europeans who superintended the work.  Old men, women, and children were placed at the disposal of the contractors by the native authorities, to dig up and remove the soil; and these poor wretches, crushed with hard work, and driven with the lash by drunken overseers—­who commanded them with a pistol in hand—­under a burning sun, inhaled the noxious vapors arising from the upturned soil, and died like flies.  It was a terrible sight, and one that Pierre could not forget.