heir
reconciliation, at the thought of the scene which he would have with his
wife. Jansoulet stammered:

"I have done her no harm, however."

"Come, come, neither of you has been very nice to her. Think of the
affront put upon her when we called after our marriage. Your wife
sending word to us that she was not in the habit of receiving quondam
slaves. As though our friendship ought not to have been stronger than a
prejudice. Women don't forget things of that kind."

"But no responsibility lay with me for that, old friend. You know how
proud those Afchins are."

He was not proud himself, poor man. His mien was so woebegone, so
supplicating under his friend's frown, that he moved him to pity.
Decidedly, the cemetery had softened the baron.

"Listen, Bernard; there is only one thing that counts. If you want us to
be friends, as formerly, and this reconciliation not to be wasted, you
will have to get my wife to consent. Without her nothing can be done.
When Mlle. Afchin shut her door in our faces you let her have her way,
did you not? In the same way, on my side, if Marie said to me when I go
home, 'I will not let you be friends,' all my protestations now would
not prevent me from throwing you overboard. For there is no such thing
as friendship in face of such difficulties. Peace at one's fireside is
better than everything else."

"But in that case, what is to be done?" asked the Nabob, frightened.

"I am going to tell you. The baroness is at home every Saturday. Come
with your wife and pay her a visit the day after to-morrow. You will
find the best society in Paris at the house. The past shall not be
mentioned. The ladies will gossip together of chiffons and frocks, talk
of the things women do talk about. And then the whole matter will be
settled. We shall become friends as we used to be; and since you are in
difficulties, well, we will find some way of getting you out of them."

"Do you think so? The fact is I am in terrible straits," said the other,
shaking his head.

Hemerlingue's cunning eyes disappeared again beneath the folds of his
cheeks like two flies in butter.

"Well, yes; I have played a strong game. But you don't lack shrewdness,
all the same. The loan of the fifteen millions to the Bey--it was a good
stroke, that. Ah! you are bold enough; only you hold your cards badly.
One can see your game."

Till now they had been talking in low tones, impressed by the silence
of the great necropolis; but li