enly illuminated the roof of the
chateau with letters of fire, over which the rain and wind caused great
shadows to run to and fro, but which still displayed very legibly the
legend: "Viv' L' B'Y M'H'MED."

"That's the bouquet," said the unhappy Nabob, unable to restrain a
smile, a very pitiful, very bitter smile. But no, he was mistaken. The
bouquet awaited him at the door of the chateau; and it was Amy Ferat
who came forward to present it to him, stepping out of the group of
maidens from Arles, who were sheltering their watered silk skirts and
figured velvet caps under the marquee, awaiting the first carriage. Her
bunch of flowers in her hand, modestly, with downcast eyes and roguish
ankle, the pretty actress darted to the door and stood almost kneeling
in an attitude of salutation, which she had been rehearsing for a week.
Instead of the bey, Jansoulet stepped out, excited, stiffly erect, and
passed her by without even looking at her. And as she stood there, her
nosegay in her hand, with the stupid expression of a balked fairy,
Cardailhac said to her with the _blague_ of a Parisian who speedily
makes the best of things:

"Take away your flowers, my dear, your affair has fallen through. The
Bey isn't coming--he forgot his handkerchief, and as that's what he
uses to talk to ladies, why, you understand--"

* * *

Now, it is night. Everybody is asleep at Saint-Romans after the
tremendous hurly-burly of the day. The rain is still falling in
torrents, the banners feebly wave their drenched carcasses, one can
hear the water rushing down the stone steps, transformed into cascades.
Everything is streaming and dripping. A sound of water, a deafening
sound of water. Alone in his magnificently furnished chamber with its
seignorial bed and its curtains of Chinese silk with purple stripes,
the Nabob is still stirring, striding back and forth, revolving bitter
thoughts. His mind is no longer intent upon the affront to himself, the
public affront in the presence of thirty thousand persons, nor upon the
murderous insult that the Bey addressed to him in presence of his
mortal enemies. No, that Southerner with his wholly physical
sensations, swift as the action of new weapons, has already cast away
all the venom of his spleen. Moreover court favorites are always
prepared, by many celebrated precedents, for such overwhelming falls
from grace. What terrifies him is what he can see behind that in