end of the bridge, when the first
carriage reached the great triumphal arch, rockets went off, drums beat,
saluting the monarch as he entered the estates of his faithful subject.
To crown the irony, in the gathering darkness a gigantic flare of gas
suddenly illuminated the roof of the castle, and in spite of the wind
and the rain, these fiery letters could still be seen very plainly,
"Long liv' th' B'Y 'HMED!"

"That--that is the wind-up," said the poor Nabob, who could not help
laughing, though it was a very piteous and bitter laugh. But no, he was
mistaken. The end was the bouquet waiting at the castle door. Amy Ferat
came to present it, leaving the group of country maidens under the
veranda, where they were trying to shelter the shining silks of their
skirts and the embroidered velvets of their caps as they waited for
the first carriage. Her bunch of flowers in her hand, modest, her eyes
downcast, but showing a roguish leg, the pretty actress sprang forward
to the door in a low courtesy, almost on her knees, a pose she had
worked at for a week. Instead of the Bey, Jansoulet got out, stiff and
troubled, and passed without even seeing her. And as she stayed there,
bouquet in hand, with the silly look of a stage fairy who has missed her
cue, Cardailhac said to her with the ready chaff of the Parisian who
is never at a loss: "Take away your flowers, my dear. The Bey is not
coming. He had forgotten his handkerchief, and as it is only with that
he speaks to ladies, you understand--"

Now it is night. Everything is asleep at Saint-Romans after the
tremendous uproar of the day. Torrents of rain continue to fall; and in
the park, where the triumphal arches and the Venetian masts still lift
vaguely their soaking carcasses, one can hear streams rushing down the
slopes transformed into waterfalls. Everything streams or drips. A noise
of water, an immense noise of water. Alone in his sumptuous room, with
its lordly bed all hung with purple silks, the Nabob is still awake,
turning over his own black thoughts as he strides to and fro. It is not
the affront, that public outrage before all these people, that occupies
him, it is not even the gross insult the Bey had flung at him in the
presence of his mortal enemies. No, this southerner, whose sensations
were all physical and as rapid as the firing of new guns, had already
thrown off the venom of his rancour. And then, court favourites, by
famous examples, are always prepared for