twitchings of his face, the intonations which he could not express. And
if the anguish of the poor man was touching, the old mother up there,
leaning, gasping, moving her lips nervously as if to help him find
words, reflected the picture of his torture. Though he could not see
her, intentionally turned away from her gallery, as he evidently was,
this maternal inspiration, the ardent magnetism of those black eyes,
ended by giving him life, and suddenly his words and gestures flowed
freely:

"First of all, gentlemen, I must say that I do not defend the methods of
my election. If you believe that electoral morals have not been always
the same in Corsica, that all the irregularities committed are due to
the corrupting influence of my gold and not to the uncultivated and
passionate temperament of its people, reject me--it will be justice
and I will not murmur. But in this debate other matters have been dealt
with, accusations have been made which involve my personal honour, and
those, and those alone, I wish to answer." His voice was growing firmer,
always broken, veiled, but with some soft cadences. He spoke rapidly of
his life, his first steps, his departure for the East. It sounded like
an eighteenth century tale of the Barbary corsairs sailing the Latin
seas, of Beys and of bold Provencals, as sunburned as crickets, who
used to end by marrying some sultana and "taking the turban," in the
old expression of the Marseillais. "As for me," said the Nabob, with his
good-humoured smile. "I had no need of taking the turban to grow rich. I
had only to take into this land of idleness the activity and flexibility
of a southern Frenchman; and in a few years I made one of those fortunes
which can only be made in those hot countries, where everything is
gigantic, prodigious, disproportionate, where flowers grow in a night,
and one tree produces a forest. The excuse of such fortunes is the
manner in which they are used; and I make bold to say that never has any
favourite of fortune tried harder to justify his wealth. I have not
been successful." No! he had not succeeded. From all the gold he had
scattered he had only gathered contempt and hatred. Hatred! Who could
boast more of it than he? like a great ship in the dock when its keel
touches the bottom. He was too rich, and that stood for every vice,
and every crime pointed him out for anonymous vengeances, cruel and
incessant enmities.

"Ah, gentlemen," cried the poor Nabob, lifting