the attendant throng was
largely composed, and move toward him, evidently seeking him, actuated
by a desire for a meeting. In the main avenue yonder there would be
people at hand in case of accident, while here--_Brr!_ It was that
anxiety which caused him to force his short steps, his panting breath;
but in vain. As he turned in his fear of being followed, the Nabob's
tall form and broad shoulders appeared at the entrance of the path. It
was impossible for the bulky creature to walk in the narrow space
between the tombs, which were packed so closely that there was hardly
room to kneel. The rich, rain-soaked earth slipped and gave way under
his feet. He adopted the plan of walking on with an indifferent air,
hoping that the other would not recognize him. But a hoarse, powerful
voice behind him called:

"Lazare!"

The capitalist's name was Lazare. He made no reply but tried to overtake
a group of officers who were walking a long way in front of him.

"Lazare! O Lazare!"

Just as in the old days on the quay at Marseille. He was tempted to
halt, under the influence of an old habit, but the thought of his
infamous conduct, of all the injury he had inflicted on the Nabob and
was still attempting to inflict on him, suddenly came to his mind with a
horrible fear, amounting to frenzy, when a hand of iron brought him
abruptly to a standstill. The sweat of cowardice drenched his limp and
nerveless limbs, his face turned still yellower, his eyes winked in
anticipation of the terrible blow he expected to receive, while his
great arms were raised instinctively to ward it off.

"Oh! don't be afraid. I have no evil designs on you," said Jansoulet
sadly. "I come simply to ask you to cease your designs on me."

[Illustration: "'_Don't be afraid. I have no evil designs on you._'"]

He paused to take breath. The banker, stupefied and dismayed, opened his
round owl's eyes to their fullest extent in face of that suffocating
emotion.

"Listen, Lazare, you are the stronger in this war we have been carrying
on so long. I am on the ground at your feet. My shoulders have touched.
Now be generous, spare your old chum. Have mercy on me, I say, have
mercy on me."

That Southerner, subdued and softened by the pomp of the funeral
ceremony, trembled in every limb. Hemerlingue, facing him, was hardly
more courageous. The dismal music, the open tomb, the orations, the
cannonading, and the lofty philosophy of inevitable death, all had
combined