you an entire people." The cause is gained.

"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