sult.
He reflects that all his property is over yonder, houses,
counting-rooms, vessels, at the mercy of the bey, in that lawless
Orient, the land of arbitrary power. And, pressing his burning brow
against the streaming glass, with the perspiration standing on his
back, and hands cold as ice, he stares vacantly out into the night, no
darker, no more impenetrable than his own destiny.

Suddenly he hears footsteps, hurried footsteps, at his door.

"Who's there?"

"Monsieur," says Noel, entering the room half-dressed, "a very urgent
despatch sent from the telegraph office by special messenger."

"A despatch!--What is the next thing?"

He takes the blue paper and opens it with trembling hand. The god,
having already been wounded twice, is beginning to feel that he is
vulnerable, to lose his assurance; he experiences the apprehensions,
the nervous tremors of other men. The signature first. _Mora!_ Is it
possible? The duke, the duke telegraph to him! Yes, there is no doubt
about it. _M-o-r-a._

And above:

_Popolasca is dead. Election in Corsica soon. You are official
candidate._

A deputy! That means salvation. With that he has nothing to fear. A
representative of the great French nation is not to be treated like a
simple _mercanti_. Down with the Hemerlingues!

"O my duke, my noble duke!"

He was so excited that he could not sign the receipt.

"Where's the man who brought this despatch?" he asked abruptly.

"Here, Monsieur Jansoulet," replied a hearty voice from the hall, in
the familiar Southern dialect.

He was a lucky dog, that messenger.

"Come in," said the Nabob.

And, after handing him his receipt, he plunged his hands into his
pockets, which were always full, grasped as many gold pieces as he
could hold and threw them into the poor devil's cap as he stood there
stammering, bewildered, dazzled by the fortune that had befallen him in
the darkness of that enchanted palace.

XII.

A CORSICAN ELECTION.

"POZZONEGRO, near Sartene.

"I am able at last to write you of my movements, my dear Monsieur
Joyeuse. In the five days that we have been in Corsica we have
travelled about so much, talked so much, changed carriages and
steeds so often, riding sometimes on mules, sometimes on asses, and
sometimes even on men's backs to cross streams, have written so
many letters, made notes on so many petitions, given away so many
chasubles and altar-cloths, proppe