emporary establishment, was heightened by the idea of
travelling that hovered about that fortune drawn from distant sources,
like a cloud of uncertainty or a threat.

The coffee was served in the Oriental fashion, with all the grounds, in
small filigreed silver cups, and the guests stood around in groups,
drinking hastily, burning their tongues, watching one another
furtively, and keeping especially close watch on the Nabob, in order to
grasp the favorable moment to jump upon him, drag him into a corner of
one of those huge rooms, and arrange their loan at last. For it was
that for which they had been waiting for two hours, that was the object
of their visit, and the fixed idea that gave them that distraught,
falsely attentive air, during the breakfast. But now there was no more
embarrassment, no more grimacing. Everybody in that strange company
knew that, in the Nabob's crowded existence, the coffee hour alone was
left free for confidential audiences, and as every one wished to take
advantage of it, as they had all come for the purpose of tearing a
handful of wool from that golden fleece which offered itself to them so
good-naturedly, they no longer talked or listened, they attended
strictly to business.

Honest Jenkins is the one who begins. He has led his friend Jansoulet
into a window-recess and is submitting to him the drawings for the
house at Nanterre. A pretty outlay, by heaven! One hundred and fifty
thousand francs for the property, and, in addition, the very
considerable expense of installation, the staff, the bedding, the goats
for nurses, the manager's carriage, the omnibuses to meet the children
at every train. A great deal of money--But how comfortable the dear
little creatures will be there! what a service to Paris, to mankind!
The Government cannot fail to reward with a bit of red ribbon such
unselfish philanthropy. "The Cross, the 15th of August." With those
magic words Jenkins can obtain whatever he wants. With his hoarse,
cheerful voice, which seems to be hailing a vessel in the fog, the
Nabob calls, "Bompain." The man in the fez, tearing himself away from
the cellaret, crosses the salon majestically, whispers, goes away and
returns with an inkstand and a check-book, the leaves of which come out
and fly away of themselves. What a fine thing is wealth! To sign a
check for two hundred thousand francs on his knee costs Jansoulet no
more than to take a louis from his pocket.

The others, with their nos