effusions are
over, a silence comes as if they had no more to tell each other, while
it is in reality the abundance of things, their precipitate rush, that
prevents them from finding utterance. The two chums had touched that
condition; but Jansoulet kept a tight grasp on the banker's arm, fearing
to see him escape and resist the kindly impulse he had just roused.

"You are not in a hurry, are you? We can take a little walk, if you
like. It has stopped raining, the air is pleasant; one feels twenty
years younger."

"Yes, it is pleasant," said Hemerlingue; "only I cannot walk for long;
my legs are heavy."

"True, your poor legs. See, there is a bench over there. Let us go and
sit down. Lean on me, old friend."

And the Nabob, with brotherly aid, led him to one of those benches
dotted here and there among the tombs, on which those inconsolable
mourners rest who make the cemetery their usual walk and abode. He
settled him in his seat, gazed upon him tenderly, pitied him for his
infirmity, and, following what was quite a natural channel in such a
spot, they came to talking of their health, of the old age that was
approaching. This one was dropsical, the other subject to apoplectic
fits. Both were in the habit of dosing themselves with the Jenkins
pearls, a dangerous remedy--witness Mora, so quickly carried off.

"My poor duke!" said Jansoulet.

"A great loss to the country," remarked the banker with an air of
conviction.

And the Nabob added naively:

"For me above all, for me; for, if he had lived--Ah! what luck you have,
what luck you have!"

Fearing to have wounded him, he went on quickly:

"And then, too, you are clever, so very clever."

The baron looked at him with a wink so droll, that his little black
eyelashes disappeared amid his yellow fat.

"No," said he, "it is not I who am clever. It is Marie."

"Marie?"

"Yes, the baroness. Since her baptism she has given up her name of
Yamina for that of Marie. She is a real sort of woman. She knows more
than I do myself about banking and Paris and business. It is she who
manages everything at home."

"You are very fortunate," sighed Jansoulet. His air of gloom told a long
story of qualities missing in Mlle. Afchin. Then, after a silence, the
baron resumed:

"She has a great grudge against you, Marie, you know. She will not be
pleased when she hears that we have been talking together."

A frown passed over his heavy brow, as though he were regretting t